Season of Bittersweet
by Brighid45
Summary: Fifteenth story in the Treatment series. House and Roz deal with a profound change in their lives, while Jason takes up his unofficial status as House's protege with a little help from the diagnostic team. Drama, humor, angst and some romance ensue. Epilogue now posted. Rated T for language etc.
1. Chapter 1

_**(And so we begin another story in the Treatment 'verse . . . hope you like it. **  
_

_**Quick new fic endorsement: clp66 has a new Susan Chronicles story up, called **_**Journey Home. _If you haven't read any of her stories, you're in for a treat. -B)_**

_O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being . . . _

_Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;_

_Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! ~~Percy Bysshe Shelley_

_October 1st_

_8:30 a.m._

The first thing Greg notices upon waking is the familiar fragrance of fresh-brewed coffee. Roz always programs the maker before she leaves, knowing the smell will be more effective in getting him out of bed than any alarm (though he does have one set and ready to go on the nightstand). He lies there for a few minutes, enjoying the comfort of his warm bed, the relative lack of discomfort in his thigh and joints. Progress since the surgery has been slow but steady; both sites have healed and the red scars are fading to pink. Eventually they'll be the same ivory color as the rest of his skin . . . He moves his hand over the smooth expanse of thigh with something like wonder. He remembers it being like this before the blood clot wreaked its havoc but those memories are faded, dreamlike. Now he has almost everything returned to him that was taken away, a gift he'd never dared to even consider. Slowly he rolls over, savoring the sense of completeness . . . and makes a second discovery: Roz hasn't left. Her clothing is still laid out at the foot of the bed, along with a clean jumpsuit.

It takes him some time to get to his feet, put on his bathrobe and go to the kitchen—he is fifty-three after all, and cold weather takes its toll this early in the morning-but he manages it. His wife sits at the table, hands clasped in front of her. There's a cup of coffee off to her right, but it's quite obviously cold; there's no sign she's eaten any breakfast or made an attempt to cook for herself. She doesn't look up when he takes a seat next to her. Foreboding replaces contentment, but all he says is "What?"

Without saying a word she reaches into her pocket, takes out what he recognizes immediately as a testing stick. He doesn't even have to see the lines on the urinalysis pad to know what it means. Absolute shock floods through him. Still, he has enough presence of mind not to ask "How?" That's fairly obvious. They made love some weeks ago and somehow, the birth control failed. That also answers "Why?" All contraception has a very small but quite possible risk of failure; only abstinence works one hundred per cent of the time.

Greg takes a breath, lets it out slowly. Roz keeps her gaze on the tabletop. "I didn't do it on purpose," she says. Her gaze lifts to his for a moment, slips back down quickly. "Greg, I _wouldn't_." The anxiety and apprehension he sees strikes at him. She's scared; her use of his name tells him that. That alarms him in turn. What does she think he's going to do, yell at her? Smack her around? Kick her out of his life? Believe she's trying to trap him somehow? He knows this opens up old and painful memories for her—the knowledge that her mother deliberately got pregnant to hold onto her father, and then neglected her child while she chased other men. Most if not all of Roz's feelings of inferiority and low self-esteem come from those early years and knowing she was nothing more to her own mother than a ploy. But she has to understand he doesn't hold that against her—how could he? She had nothing to do with the games played by the adults in her life.

For answer he picks up the testing stick, sets it aside, and takes her hand in his. He doesn't say anything, he just clasps her fingers. They're cold, and trembling just a little. After a few moments Roz sighs softly. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Stop it," Greg says, and winces at the harshness in his tone. "Not your fault," he says with more gentleness, and gives her hand a squeeze, which she returns. "When did you know?"

"I-I didn't—it just didn't occur to me until yesterday after work." Her voice contains the faintest tremor. "I was looking up something on my appointment calendar and—and it just sort of hit me that I was a few days late. You . . . you know my periods are like clockwork . . ." She hesitated. "This just felt . . . different somehow, I don't know . . . so I bought a test on the way home. Just—just in case."

"You didn't say anything last night."

Her hold tightened. "I wasn't trying to keep this from you, Greg. I swear to you, I wasn't."

He has to point out the complete lack of logic in that statement. "But if you had a suspicion yesterday—"

"I . . . I didn't want to raise a false alarm." She won't look at him. "I didn't want you to think I was . . ."

"Attention-seeking," he finishes when she trails off. After a moment she nods slowly. "For god's sake," he says, torn between annoyance and a reluctant amusement. "When have you ever done anything like that? You're being ridiculous." He snorts and shakes his head, but is careful to keep his hold firm. "You are _not_ your mother," he says softly, and feels her relax a little.

"What do we do now?" she asks after a brief silence. Greg scrubs his free hand over his face. He can answer that question fairly easily, but he knows his wife isn't ready to deal with what he'll say—not yet, maybe not ever, he doesn't know.

"I could use some caffeine," he says. "Definitely a hot shower. Care to join me?"

It's a sign of how upset she is that she doesn't give him a smart comeback or even crack a smile, but her fingers tighten on his before she lets go. "I'll start breakfast," she says, and rises to make good on her words.

The shower doesn't take long. Greg enters the kitchen with some trepidation, to stand by the table. "I called in sick," Roz says as he comes in. She sets eggs and butter on the counter, roots around in the fridge for something else. "But I know you have to go in today."

"I'm the boss," he points out. "I can take time off if I want to."

"Rob said you're choosing new patients," she says, closes the fridge door and puts the skillet on the burner. "That's important."

"And you think this isn't?" He's floored by that conclusion. Roz gives him a quick look. The apprehension is back.

"It can wait," she says quietly.

He goes to the living room, picks up the phone and dials the clinic. When McMurphy answers he says "I won't be in. Tell the team to have four candidates ready to present tomorrow. Once they get that done, they can go over to Wirth's and put in some hours."

"You okay?" McMurphy wants to know.

"I'll find out later," he says, and hangs up. When he returns to the kitchen Roz is cracking eggs into the skillet, but her shoulders are hunched and her expression is impassive—that means her fear is growing. "Leave that," he says. She doesn't answer, but after a moment she sets the skillet aside and comes to him.

They end up in the living room, half-facing each other on the couch. Roz sits with her arms folded around her middle, a sure indicator of distress.

"What are you thinking?" he says. Roz swallows.

"You want me to get rid of it," she says quietly. "Don't you?"

Greg pauses. There isn't any hostility in her voice, and she didn't say 'get rid of the baby', but she's agitated by the thought. "We've talked about this," he says. "We said no kids."

"Yeah, we did." She doesn't snap or yell at him. "But I don't know . . . don't know what to do." One hand touches her belly; he's pretty sure she isn't even aware of it. The sight makes his heart ache, a feeling he hates.

"It's just a clump of cells," he says, trying to reach her with logic—an approach that's worked in the past. He knows it's a dangerous course here, though. "It's not a person."

"It's yours," she says simply. "I was okay with no children, I didn't lie to you when we decided that before our marriage. Now things are different."

"No they're not," he says, impatient with her sentimentality. "Just because we didn't plan this—"

"That's just it. We didn't plan it. But it happened anyway." She falls silent a moment. "You know I'm not going to say anything about fate or what God wants because I don't think that way, but it just . . . just doesn't feel right to me to end this pregnancy."

"You understand the risks," he says, fighting a sense of desperation. "You're forty-one and your eggs have degraded in quality. I'm in my fifties. I've done copious amounts of narcotics, not to mention alcohol. As a consequence there's a good chance the kid will have serious problems. I've seen more families with disabled offspring than you can count, and every single one of them had a hellacious—"

"Stop!" Greg stares at her, shocked by her sharp tone. "I _know_ all that. Do you think I don't? I know it's best to terminate . . ." She is struggling not to cry. Her emotional upheaval frightens him because he knows it's genuine. He wants to walk away—hell, he wants to run and not look back. This was nothing he ever bargained for. It has the potential to destroy everything they have together.

"I suggest we talk to Hazel," Roz says. "If we can't reach her, then Sarah. But we need help from someone right now."

That idea does not appeal to him in the slightest, but he also knows she's right. "We're not bringing a shrink into this," he says anyway.

Roz looks at him then. There's determination in her expression, and tears on her lashes. "Please, Greg." Her tone is quiet—not reproach, just a simple request. He is not proof against her respect for him, and the urgent plea for help in her voice.

"'kay," he says finally.

They have breakfast first. Roz doesn't seem to have any trouble with morning sickness, at least not yet. "I feel okay," she says when Greg quizzes her. "A little more hungry than usual, actually."

"Biological imperative," he says. "Survival of the species."

"Yeah, I know." Roz puts a small amount of coffee in her cup and loads it with steamed milk. "Have to buy decaf or something, I guess."

She eats a respectable amount of food, though Greg can tell she's pushing herself to do it. He watches her out of the corner of his eye while he dumps eggs and toast and coffee into his belly, ignoring the tight knot there.

After everything's washed up and put away, she makes the call. Apparently the doctor is in, and agrees to a Skype session. Five minutes later they're sitting in front of the computer, with Hazel smiling at them from her sunny study.

"What's up?" she asks quietly. Greg doesn't answer.

"I'm pregnant," Roz says. Hazel's eyes widen a bit.

"I see," she says. "When did you find out for sure?"

"This morning."

Hazel sits back. "All right," she says mildly. "So this is a source of contention between you, I take it."

"Before we got married we agreed, no children," Roz says. "I was fine with that, but this . . ." She looks down at her hands.

"I haven't told her what to do," Greg says. Hazel nods.

"I know that. You wouldn't, Greg." That surprises him. He blinks at her. Hazel gives him an impatient look but there's humor there too. "You wouldn't," she says, as if it's obvious. That tight knot in Greg's belly loosens.

"Okay," Hazel is saying. "All right. Talk to me."

"I . . . I don't know what to do," Roz says.

"We had an agreement," Greg says. "No kids."

"Why?" Hazel says. They both look at her. "It's a simple question. Why did you decide that?"

Roz glances at Greg, but he says nothing; damned if he'll be the one to start this mess boiling over. "Several reasons," she says at last.

"What are they?" Hazel asks. "Start with one and go from there."

"Well . . . I think the main reason is age," Roz says slowly. "We're both older . . . that complicates things."

"Sensible," Hazel says when Roz falls silent. "But that isn't all of it. Go on."

"I'm . . . I'm not exactly mom material." Roz doesn't add what she could have to that: her husband has no credentials for fatherhood either.

"Mom material . . . what does that mean?" Hazel asks gently, but Roz still flinches.

"You know about my childhood," she says.

"You've told me about your mother's neglect." Roz nods. "You believe that disqualifies you from raising a child?"

Roz obviously doesn't know what to say; there's more to it than that, but for her to mention it she'd have to speak for Greg and she won't do that. He's not about to join in the conversation, however.

"What aren't you telling me?" Hazel wants to know. Neither of them say anything. "I can't help if you don't talk to me."

Roz glances at Greg. He sit back and glares at Hazel. "This wasn't my idea," he says. "Don't ask me for particulars."

"Ah, so this involves your childhood as well," Hazel says. "Thought so."

"None of your business," Greg shoots back.

"That's a singularly silly thing to say to a psychologist." Hazel gives him a thoughtful look. "You two are convinced you'd be rotten parents because the ones you were stuck with were hopeless at the job, to say the least." She sits back and sips her coffee. "You know, for two vastly intelligent people you both believe the most ridiculous emotional untruths about yourselves, and with little or no reason to do so."

"So what's the truth?" Roz asks.

"Something you have to figure out for yourself," Hazel says gently. "If I just tell you, you won't believe me."

"I hadn't planned on becoming a mom," Roz says slowly in the ensuing silence. "I like children . . . being a tutor is great, the kids are fun to work with. But I give them back at the end of their time with me. There's no real responsibility involved." Her hand drifts down to her belly once more. "Caring for a child all the time . . . I wouldn't know . . . my mother didn't take care of me, I don't—don't know how to do that. I could hurt . . ." She trails off. Her anguish is painful to watch. Greg can't stand it.

"You'd be a good mother," he says before he can stop himself. Roz turns her head to look at him, her astonishment plain.

"But if you think that, why do you want me to-"

"I don't want you to end the pregnancy because I think you'd be a bad parent," he snaps. His anxiety is back and climbing at a precipitous rate.

"Ah," Hazel says. "You believe you're the reason." She gives him a steady look. "Why?"

Greg says nothing. There's no point in recounting the years of his childhood and youth spent with a father often absent but abusive when he was at home, and a mother who neglected him while her own pain consumed her.

"Greg," Roz says. She waits until he looks at her. "I've never had any doubt that you'd be a good dad. I've seen you with Chelsea Butterman, and Jason and Mandy. You don't talk down to them, you treat them with respect. You see them as people." She reaches out, puts her hand to his cheek for a moment. Her touch is sweet, sustaining. "You would love our child with everything in you, and even when you made mistakes it would be okay."

He swallows on a dry throat. "You can't know that," he says with more bitterness than he intends.

"Sure I can," she says simply. "You do something like that with me every day." She smiles at him, just a little upturn of the corners of her mouth, but it's there in her eyes too. He doesn't know what to say. Her faith in him is always bewildering and at the same time, life-giving.

"It's not that simple," he says, but it's more to convince himself than her.

"Take a few days," Hazel says quietly. "Talk about it, think about it. Make an informed decision based on the new situation you're in, that's my suggestion."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Using an approach that appeals to an empirical mindset, how original," he says. Hazel chuckles.

"I use what works." Her gaze softens as she looks at Roz. "Who else can you talk to about this? You need a confidante."

"Um," Roz says, obviously surprised. "Okay. Yeah, okay. I have someone."

"Who?" Greg asks, glad to be diverted from their crisis even if it's just for a few moments. It won't be Sarah unless there's no other choice; Roz knows that would cause confidentiality problems for all of them.

"Kris," Roz says. She looks apprehensive, as if he won't approve. He shrugs.

"As long as she doesn't tell anything to that _yenta_ known as James Wilson," he says.

"Hence the term 'confidante'," Hazel says dryly. "Kris is a good choice. How about you?" she says to Greg.

"How about me?" he says, stalling for time.

"Who can you talk to?"

"Don't need that," he says with more casualness than he feels.

"Yes you do," Hazel says quietly. "You need it just as much as your wife does."

"No point."

"There's every point." Her tone is firm. "Find someone. Then call me when you're both ready to talk. You can call me before then as well, I'm available anytime."

The rest of the day stretches out before them. Greg is beginning to regret staying home; he doesn't want to think about how they'll fill in the hours ahead. Roz doesn't seem to have the same problem though.

"I could use some extra sleep," she says softly. In the morning sunlight he can see the tiredness in the lines of her face, the faint smudges under her eyes. "Care to join me?" She smiles a little as she gives him back his words, so there's no way he can say no.

Even under the circumstances there's a certain pleasant sense of decadence in stretching out on the bed under the light quilt, his wife's slender body spooned against his. With a sigh she settles in. Greg slips his arm around her and lies there quietly as she drifts into sleep, her breathing becoming slow and even.

It's not so easy for him though. He thinks of the life growing inside her, cells dividing in the relentless progression toward becoming something more than a tiny speck of matter. So much can go wrong . . . and even if it doesn't, there are possible complications with the birth, not to mention entry into a world teeming with danger at every turn. How can they bring a new life into a situation so precarious?

Slowly he lets his hand move down her body, fingertips just barely brushing her skin. Already he can see and feel a difference in her small breast—there's a slight increase in the size and color of the aureole and the curves feel a tiny bit fuller, as if the glands are beginning to swell. It's incredibly subtle but it's there; he knows her body well enough by now to register any changes, no matter how minute. He wonders how much she'll show—it probably depends mostly on whose genetics will win out. From what his mother's told him about his real father, tall and lean runs through several generations. Paired with Roz's fast metabolism and thin frame, it's likely the child will follow that body type. Undoubtedly its coloring will be more like hers though, since his own chestnut curls and blue eyes are the result of two parents with matching recessive genes.

At last he reaches her abdomen. He puts his palm on her belly and draws in a startled breath when her hand covers his. She doesn't say or do anything else. Her slender, work-worn fingers stroke his skin, a caress that holds comfort and love as well as her own need for reassurance. In answer he leans in and brushes his lips over her cheek, buries his face in her soft fragrant hair. She makes a little sound of contentment, and then "_Ti amo_," she whispers, "_ti amo_," and the words fill him with a fragile, elusive wonder that she can still say those words and mean them despite what's happened. He nuzzles her and feels her relax, and doesn't dare admit it's a sign everything will be okay—he knows signs are for gullible fools and those with no skills in critical thinking. Still, he can't help himself. He hopes against hope it's a good omen.

**_Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be very welcome._**


	2. Chapter 2

**_(A huge THANK YOU to everyone who has added my story to your Favorites lists, and/or are now following me as an author. I'm very deeply honored. _**

**_An aside about guest or anonymous reviews . . . If you review without logging in I can't respond to your review with a turnaround reply, though from now on if I know who the review came from, I'll try to PM you. For those anonymous reviewers who tell me I don't write certain relationships the way they think I should: I do not follow ships in this universe, never have, never will. I also do not follow canon storylines per se and haven't done so since the end of S5, when this story begins with House in Mayfield in _Treatment_. If you have a problem with that it's your problem, not mine. There are plenty of great stories out there that do follow ships and further the canon storylines from all the seasons. Go read them instead. This is the last time I'll say this. From now on, any anonymous review bashing me for not doing what I've never done and never promised to do, will be deleted. On the other hand, honest and thoughtful criticism, comments and discussions are welcomed, as always. -B)_**

_October 3__rd_

_4:15 p.m._

Roz climbed out of the truck and took her toolbox and lunch bag in hand, then headed to the house. Greg was home; she didn't have to see Barbarella in the yard to know that. She could hear the piano from the back yard. The sound gave her a nice sense of coming home, a feeling she still secretly treasured. Of course he wasn't expecting her; she was an hour earlier than usual, but she'd often come home at her normal time to hear him at the piano.

As quietly as possible she entered the kitchen. Not quietly enough, however. As she put her toolbox under the table the music stopped. _Busted,_ she thought. "Honey, I'm home," she called, and couldn't help but smile at the snort she received in answer.

"_Quel surprise_," he said as he came into the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. His gaze flickered over her, rested on her belly for a moment, then lifted to her face. "What's for dinner?"

Roz took off her jacket and hung it by the door. "It's cold out today, I thought some roast chicken would taste good. It'll warm up the kitchen."

"And baked potatoes." Greg put his mug in the sink. "Guess wine is out for a while."

"You can still have some." Roz unlaced her boots and slipped out of one, then the other. She set them on the mat by the door.

"You do have your rituals," Greg said. He sounded amused. "With a yard ape you can kiss that goodbye, you know. Kids are anarchists and total opportunists. They love to drive grownups crazy."

"That makes living with you good practice." She straightened and faced him, then walked over to where he stood by the sink. "As long as we can still do this," she said, and kissed him.

"You're cold," he said when it ended. His bright gaze searched her face.

"I just came in from outside," she said wryly, but the concern in his voice made her feel good.

"Put on a sweater and take up some space on the couch, watch some tv. We can eat a little later."

Roz hid her amusement. "That's very generous of you." She started to turn away, only to be caught up in long lean arms.

"Smartass," he kissed her again. She savored the feel of him holding her. "I know how to roast a chicken."

"You don't have to make dinner," she said, but the thought was appealing. It had been a long day, and the knowledge of her first pre-natal exam coming up tomorrow had haunted her the entire time.

"I'm not fluffing you. Go put on your comfies," Greg said. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then set her back from him. "Roast chicken and baked potatoes coming up."

"Would you—" She hesitated.

"What?" He sounded impatient, but she sensed it was mainly his default annoyance and not how he really felt.

"Would you keep playing? Just for a while?" She rarely asked him, knowing it was something he did for himself. She hesitated to intrude on his privacy. Greg gave her a searching look.

"'kay," he said softly. "Any requests?"

She shook her head. "Whatever you feel like is fine," she said. "I always—" She stopped, embarrassed to feel her cheeks grow warm.

"What?" He half-smiled. "You're blushing. Finish what you were going to say."

Roz bit her lip and looked down. "I always like what you play," she said, and wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She sounded like a love-struck dumbass.

"Hey." A lean finger touched her chin, tipped her face up to his, and laid a light buss on her lips.

The next thing she knew, she was seated on the piano bench next to him. He glanced at her, brows raised. Then he began to play, and she recognized the tune immediately from an album she'd just downloaded.

_I pull a mad scheme_

_All around the North Side_

_Chasin' a sweet thing _

_But so unsatisfied _

_Every time I try_

_Crazy 'bout a North Side gal . . . _

Of course he'd listened to her new music; she smiled and had a fleeting image of him thumbing through her playlists, soaking up everything he hadn't heard before. _I hope our little one gets his talent and not my lack of it_, she thought, and then gave herself to the fine rolling rhythms Greg created just for her.

_7:45 p.m._

Gene lugged the amp closer to his chair and plugged in the guitar, gave it an experimental strum. He began to tune, glad of the woodstove's warmth as wind moaned in the eaves of the old barn. It was a chilly evening, a harbinger of the weather to come; the night before they'd had a magnificent display of northern lights. He'd appreciated their beauty and resolved to add another half-cord of wood to the rack in the back yard; a midwestern childhood had taught him plenty about auroras as harbingers of harsh, even brutal winters. He shivered as the door opened and Greg came in, shoulders hunched against the gale.

"Hey," Gene said in mild surprise. Usually Greg was the last to show up, though to give him credit he was often also the last to leave. Greg nodded in response. He came over to stand by the stove, still in his down jacket.

"Got the playlist ready to go," he said. There was an odd tone in his voice; he sounded too casual. Gene shot him a look and received one in return.

"Okay," he said. "Anything new?"

"Same stuff we've been working on," Greg said, and unzipped his jacket. He held his hands to the stove, gave them a rub.

"I meant with you," Gene said mildly.

"Nope," Greg said, still in that too-casual way. Gene didn't buy it. He set the guitar aside, went to the cube fridge and extracted two beers, popped the tops and brought them back. He handed one to Greg.

"Sit and get warmed up," he said. "Then tell me what's goin' on."

"Cold beer, always good for taking the chill off," Greg said, but he did as Gene told him. After he was seated on the old easy chair next to the stove he downed a quick mouthful, his throat moving as he swallowed. When he was done he lowered his gaze to the plank floor but didn't speak.

"Spill," Gene said when the silence lengthened. Greg lifted his gaze to Gene. Bright blue eyes took his measure in some sort of internal debate; then Greg gave a little nod.

"Wife's pregnant," he said. Gene felt a shock of astonishment go through him. He didn't say anything right away, though. "How?" was a stupid question; Greg would mock him for it, and rightly so.

"How's Roz doing?" he asked at last. His concern was genuine. If he was shocked she had to be completely knocked off her feet.

"Coping," Greg said. He took another slug of beer and lowered the bottle, let it dangle from his fingers. "More or less, anyway."

"How about you?" Gene asked quietly. Greg didn't look at him, didn't speak for a few moments.

"Don't know," he muttered. Gene sat back a bit. He recognized that for the monumental admission it was.

"Don't blame you," he said at last.

"She wants to keep it." Greg twirled the bottle, watched the liquid inside foam and spin. "She knows all the risks . . ." He sent Gene a keen look. "Probably should talk to someone else about this."

Gene felt a quick ripple of the old pain over his and Sarah's loss, the knowledge that they'd never have a child together. "No, it's all right," he said. "What do you want?" He put a slight emphasis on 'you'. Greg shrugged, a bare lift of his shoulders.

"Doesn't matter," he said.

"Yeah it does," Gene said. "You're Roz's man."

"I know that," Greg snapped. "What I _want_ is for her to abide by the agreement we made before we got married, and now—" He came to an abrupt halt.

"Now things are different," Gene said.

"No they're not!" He raised his head to glare at Gene. "This is not different!"

"Yeah it is," Gene said. "You both agreed to no intentional pregnancies." He sipped his beer. Greg said nothing. "She's agonizing over this, isn't she?"

"It's simple," Greg said. "She's making it complicated."

"She wants to keep her promise, but this is your child," Gene said. "She's caught between two equally powerful desires. Don't make the mistake of dismissing what she's feeling as just some irrational impulse. You know Roz isn't like that."

Greg lowered his gaze to the floor once more. Gene set his beer aside and picked up his guitar. He began to play—nothing specific, just noodling—and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man relax after a few moments. He said nothing, just continued to strum softly. Eventually Greg got to his feet and went to the stand. He picked up the guitar they used for rhythm backing and brought it over, plugged it in, gave it a quick tune. They worked their way through the first two songs on the playlist. After the second one silence fell, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling in the woodstove. Then Gene said quietly,

"When Sarah told me she couldn't have children, it was hard to know how I felt. Sad, yeah. Mostly." He strummed a chord, began to pick it, note by note. "There was anger there too, it just took me a while to realize it. I was pissed at her too, for not telling me before we got married. It felt like she didn't trust me enough to be truthful."

Greg sat still, his fingers on the guitar strings. His eyes glittered in the dancing firelight. "What do you know, Gunney's not averse to bonding," he said. Gene chuckled, unperturbed.

"Not bonding," he said. "More like comparing notes, so to speak." He glanced at Greg. "It's tempting to stick to the script. Easier, for you anyway. But it cuts the other person out of the story."

Further talk was forestalled by the arrival of Sarah, bundled in a barn coat with a cap jammed over her curls. "Look at you two, drinkin' beer," she said as she came in. "You'll freeze your fannies off." She went to Gene and kissed his cheek, then made straight for Greg. His eyes opened wide with alarm at her approach.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he groaned, "she _told _you!"

"Well of course she did," Sarah said with some asperity. "You said it was okay, so don't act like it's some terrible disaster. From the looks of things my husband knows now too." She glanced at Gene for confirmation. He gave her a slight nod. She pulled up a folding chair and sat next to Greg. "I'm glad you're working with Hazel on this," she said in a softer tone. "How are you?"

"Peachy," Greg snapped. He set the guitar aside but before he could stand up, Sarah put her hand on his arm.

"Okay, I won't pry," she said. "You have my promise on that." She gave him a light pat, then let go and stood up. "There's coffee and fresh pumpkin bread at the house when you're done," she said. "The boys should show up any minute, they were right behind me."

"Since you're already here we might as well rehearse the songs you're singing. No point in making you walk that distance twice," Greg muttered. Sarah paused.

"Thank you, son," she said. Greg nodded, his gaze averted. Gene smiled to himself. Sooner or later Sarah would make sure her oldest boy had a heart-to-heart with her over this. They both needed to talk about it. He'd already said what he wanted to say; he just hoped his words had helped somehow.

"We gonna talk or play?" he said, and handed the song list to Sarah.

_'North Side Gal,' JD McPherson_

**_Thanks for reading. A review would REALLY make my day! :)_**


	3. Chapter 3

_October 4th_

_12:10 p__.__m._

Roz pulled into the parking space at the café, turned off the engine and sat for a few moments. She stared into the window directly ahead of her, at the people seated inside the building, drinking coffee, eating lunch, laptops and tablets propped in front of them. Life for them was mundane, same old same old, boring. With everything in her she envied them that normalcy; hers had been shattered for good not quite an hour ago.

_("You are most definitely pregnant," the doctor said, and gave Roz a wide smile. "Everything looks just fine. I'd say due date should be around the end of April. Congratulations. Let's make an appointment for next month and set up an appointment for genetic testing__.__")_

Roz sighed and got out of the truck. She headed into the café, then stopped as she was assaulted by the smells all around her. They seemed sharper somehow, more pungent—not in a bad way exactly, but she felt a bit overwhelmed. Slowly she moved into the interior of the café.

Kris waited at one of the booths near the windows. As Roz came toward her she got up, smiling. "So good to see you," she said, and offered a gentle embrace. Roz returned it and was surprised to feel an upwelling of tears. _I can't be doing the whole hormonal thing this soon,_ she thought. Kris stepped back and her smile faded.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned now.

"Nothing, it's okay," Roz said. "C'mon, let's sit down. I have something to tell you."

Kris did as she asked but when both of them were seated, she took Roz's hands in hers. "What's going on?" she asked.

Roz swallowed. "I'm pregnant," she said. Kris's eyes widened. Her fingers tightened gently on Roz's.

"You look like you've committed the ultimate crime," she said after a little silence. "Aren't you happy about this?"

"Greg and I agreed, no children," Roz said. "This was . . . unexpected."

"Oh honey," Kris said softly. "He's not giving you a bad time, is he?"

"No, he isn't," Roz said. She blinked back the tears that had risen again. "He's—he's not sure what to do either, but he's willing to talk."

"Okay." Kris hesitated. "How do you feel?"

Roz was about to reply when a server showed up at their table. They gave their orders; Roz waited until the woman was gone before she answered.

"I don't know. This wasn't anything I ever expected . . . I'm not really sure what to think or feel."

"Is this going to cause trouble between you and Greg?"

Roz half-smiled. Leave it to Kris to find the heart of the problem. "We're working to make sure that doesn't happen."

"He wants you to end the pregnancy?" Kris's tone was neutral, but Roz heard the concern.

"He wants me to abide by our agreement," she said, gave Kris's hands a final squeeze and let go as the server came back with their drinks.

"But he has to see the situation has changed," Kris said. She stirred her latte and added a sprinkle of cinnamon.

"We're talking about it," Roz said. "He's been taking good care of me-us. He cares, Kris. This is as difficult for him as it is for me. He never expected to be a father . . ." She tried to keep the agitation out of her voice but hadn't succeeded very well, if Kris's expression was anything to go by.

"Okay," Kris said. "Okay, Roz. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You haven't. I just . . . I've had to think about this constantly since I found out and it's . . . hard." She tasted her decaf latte and winced at the bitterness, placed the cup back in the saucer and set it aside.

"Would you like something else to drink?"

Roz shook her head. "Just water is fine." She glanced at the latte and frowned a little. "Weird, I've never had bad coffee here before."

"Maybe they let it sit a bit too long. Mine's okay." Kris took the cup. "Let me take care of it. I'll be right back."

Roz watched her head over to the serving station and exchange the cup for a glass of water, using her customary graciousness to coax a smile from the harassed server. Kris was kind, compassionate and generous to a fault; Roz hoped Wilson appreciated what he had in her. In the meantime she was grateful for her friend's concern.

"Thanks," she said as Kris set the glass on her placemat.

"You're welcome," Kris said. "What else can I do for you, sweetheart? I mean beyond this lunch."

Roz sipped her water. "I know you're busy . . ." she said, reluctant to ask for more.

"I'm happy to help out any way I can," Kris said firmly. "What do you need?"

"Someone to talk to about this," Roz said before she could stop herself. Kris looked surprised.

"I thought you'd go to Sarah," she said.

"I will, but this is going to hurt her. I'll be weighing every word. I'd like to have someone I can talk with who'll be able to listen without pain or bad memories." Roz paused. "Can you do that? I don't want to ask for something you can't give."

"I can do that," Kris said with a warm smile. "You know I can. I love kids, hope to maybe have some of my own eventually but that's all. I'd be happy to be your listener."

"Thank you," Roz said, relieved. She looked over as the server approached with their platters. "My treat today."

"No way," Kris said. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had a heart-to-heart with a good friend? I'm paying. You can get it next time."

"You always say that and you always pay," Roz said, torn between exasperation and affection. "You're spoiling me."

"You deserve it," Kris said.

They enjoyed their sandwiches and soup as Roz turned the conversation to Kris's life. "James is in Palo Alto now," Kris said. "He says it's like a warmer version of Princeton with palm trees and bougainvillea." She stirred her soup. "I think he likes it but he can be cautious about that kind of thing. He's always so suspicious of happiness."

Roz nodded. That fit the impression she'd gained of him as well. "When do you go out to see him?"

"Just after Christmas. We'll spend New Year's together." Kris looked pleased. "A whole week with just the two of us. He wants to spend it in San Francisco so I can show him around."

"You lived there for a while, didn't you? You'll enjoy that," Roz said, a diplomatic comment. Kris gave her a wry look.

"You don't have to be polite. I know he pulled a really stupid stunt with you and Greg and he deserved to be smacked down for what he did. I'm not blind to his faults. But since his illness, something's different in him. He isn't as anxious about things." She picked at a crust from the remnants of her sandwich. "We'll see how things work out."

"I hope they do," Roz said. She remembered the two of them together, the way Wilson's gaze kept straying back to Kris, his dark eyes bright and searching. "You've looked for someone worth your while for a long time."

They parted ways eventually, with a hug and a promise to get together again in a week. "And call me whenever you like," Kris said. "Home or cell phone, doesn't matter. I'm here for you, sweetie."

"Thanks," Roz said, ashamed to find tears on her lashes once more. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Glad I can help," Kris said softly. "If you need me to go to appointments or just hang out, let me know."

Roz sat in her truck after Kris had gone, staring into the same window. She still envied those people in the café with their everyday lives, but now she didn't feel as alone as before. Maybe, just maybe, it would be possible to get through this and perhaps even celebrate the transition.

The afternoon moved at a slow but steady pace after that. She finished up a couple of small jobs and went out to inspect a barn being renovated as a house. The amount of work involved was prodigious, but she could subcontract some of it out and do the easier stuff herself-the money would be welcome and anyway, she was cleared to keep working for the next few months. The thought of sitting around doing nothing made her feel uneasy.

She came home at her usual time, tired and ready to put her feet up for a bit, to find a surprise waiting for her. A line of CD cases stood on the counter with a post-it note attached to one that read 'PUSH ME' in Greg's bold print. Roz's lips curved in a reluctant smile. She pushed the case with her finger. Down it went and the rest followed. The last one hit a knife, which popped up to knock a glass on its side. It rolled forward and tapped a paperback balanced upright. The book fell and freed a fork, which rose in the air. It was tied to an orange, which descended and in turn, raised a plastic cake cover to reveal a small plate and a glass of milk. In the middle of the plate was a single cookie. A note lay atop it-EAT ME. Roz laughed and came over to take the cookie. "Greg!" she called before she bit into it. After a moment Greg poked his head around the kitchen doorway. His piercing gaze swept over her from top to bottom.

"You screeched?"

"Home early I see," she said. "Thanks for the cookie and milk."

"We aim to please." He emerged into the doorway, folded his arms and leaned against the frame, those vivid eyes still fixed on her. "How'd the _kvetch_ session go with your bestest bud?"

"It went fine, except I wasn't there to complain." Roz took another bite of cookie and picked up the glass, sipped some milk. "We just talked."

"About the weather? Pfft."

"I need someone to talk to who I won't-won't hurt." She set the glass down. "What would you like for dinner?"

Greg straightened and came into the kitchen, to stop about a foot away from her. "Who do you think you're gonna hurt?" he demanded, his voice harsh. "If you have something to say, just say it."

Roz stared at the floor, her stomach sinking. "It's not like that," she said. "I promise, it's not."

"Rosa." That made her look up, startled; Greg never used her given name. "Stop being so scared that you're going to make some terrible mistake or say something that will break us up. You're pissing me off."

She lowered her gaze once more and nodded. Greg groaned.

"Oh for god's sake!" He reached out, took the rest of the cookie from her hand and dunked it in the milk, then ate a bite. Roz couldn't help but laugh.

"Thief," she said, and turned to go, only to be reeled in and held close.

"I never thought I'd hear myself saying this at any time in my life, but everything else has changed beyond recognition, so what the hell." He hesitated. _Talk_ to me," he said softly. Roz didn't say anything for a moment. Then she wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

"I will," she said. "Don't worry, _amante_. I will."

**_Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews really make my day! :)_**


	4. Chapter 4

_October 12th_

_3:20 p.m._

Jason liked visiting the clinic. It was the coolest place in the village-well, aside from home, and the medical center. And the science lab at school. He parked his bike by the back door- McMurphy had said it was okay to do that-took his saxophone case and book bag from the rack, and went inside.

It was always interesting to see what he'd find when he came in. Sometimes it was quiet, which didn't happen often. Usually there was something going on, a differential or a meeting, or new patients being admitted, or the team just hanging out between cases. He went to the break area first and found it deserted, but the cookie jar was full and there was milk in the fridge. He knew he had snack privileges, so he went to the cupboard for a cup and a plate, poured out some milk and piled the plate with cookies, and claimed a seat at the table. He'd just taken a bite of the first cookie when Rob ambled in.

"Jason," he said with a smile, and plopped into the seat on the other side of the table. "What's up?"

"Not much," Jason said, and put the plate between them, pushed it toward Rob. It was a tacit invitation to share, and Rob didn't hesitate. He took a cookie and ate half of it in one bite.

"Your mum's an excellent baker," he said after he swallowed. Jason nodded, mouth too full to speak. Mom's brown sugar cookies were the best thing he'd ever eaten; no one made them the way she did. They were rich and buttery and they got better as they aged, though that rarely happened. They disappeared almost as fast as she could make them.

"Got a case?" Jason said when he could talk at last.

"Still working on the same one." Rob got up and went to the fridge, extracted an iced tea. "We're stuck on a lack of symptoms, and that's all I can say."

Jason nodded; he understood about doctor-patient confidentiality. "Can you run more tests?"

"I think at this point we're better off just to observe for a while, see what happens." Rob paused. "You have a question?"

"You mean you're not going to do anything?" Jason asked, and blushed. He hadn't meant to sound accusatory. Rob smiled.

"Doing nothing is still doing something," he said. "Sometimes it's better to sit down, shut up and pay attention than to run around and be busy just to be busy."

Jason thought about that, nodded. It made sense. "So by watching the patient, you might see something you'd miss otherwise."

Rob looked pleased. "Exactly. Took me a while to figure it out. If you understand that now you'll be much farther ahead later."

Jason took another cookie. "What . . ." He hesitated, then decided to ask. "What's medical school like?"

"First few years, a lot of slogging. A lot to memorize too. You learn basics, get to know them in your sleep, upside down and inside out. Meiosis, mitosis, names of the bones and major muscle groups, nervous system, digestive system . . . there's a huge amount of detail. Some of it you'll already know from the science courses you're taking now, but you'll learn more about how things really work according to the latest theories . . ." Rob's voice trailed off. "Well, ideally anyway."

"What do you mean?" Jason bit into another cookie.

"Not all instructors are like House. Hell, hardly any of them are." Rob sighed. "Depending on where you go to school here in the States you'll mainly be dealing with grad students, and you won't see your professors much. Most of them are too busy mucking around pretending to write papers or do research. It'll be up to you to make sure you know stuff beyond what's required to pass a test or write a basic essay, most of the time."

"Don't they care about their students?" Jason felt a surge of something like dismay.

"Not really, no. Look at it from their point of view," Rob said. "Most professors stay in their jobs for years because of tenure—"

"What's that?" Jason asked, intrigued.

"It's job security, basically. It means they can't be fired or let go without a complicated process that no one wants to deal with." Rob sipped his tea. "Anyway, they see thousands of pre-med students in that time. Quite a few of those students end up dropping out or changing their major. Even with the ones who stick with it, there are so many it would be impossible to get to know them all personally. So the prof gets a grad student to take on what they see as grunt work for people who might be worth knowing someday, if they stay the course."

"But that's what the grad students did, right? And all they get is stuck with taking care of all those people," Jason pointed out. Rob grinned at him.

"Yup. That's how you get noticed. You start at the bottom and work your way to the top."

"Aren't you supposed to be learning about medicine and how to help patients heal?" Jason asked, confused. What Rob was saying made no sense.

"Look, there's something you need to understand," Rob said. He was serious now, his blue eyes intent. "Whenever you work with other people, there's always the social structure of politics involved. Do you understand what I mean?" Jason shook his head. "All right, look at it this way. In your class there are popular kids and some who are natural leaders. Then you've got the troublemakers, the ones who always sit at the back of the room and trash everyone and start fights or bully the weaker kids. And you have at least one tosser who can never do anything right and gets picked on all the time just because. Everyone else sort of fills in around those small groups."

"Yeah," Jason said. He saw the truth in what Rob said.

"Now in that overall group there are rules about who does what, who can say things and who can't, and all that kind of thing. And every day when you go to class, those rules are always there. It's the same in university, and in workplaces too when you graduate and find a job, if you're lucky." Rob took another cookie. "Any time you have more than two people in a room you'll have the same thing. Humans are primates, Jay. We're hard-wired for the preference to live in groups, probably because when we were evolving and still smaller and weaker than most of the other animals out there, there was safety in numbers. Because we're social, there are unspoken rules about how we behave with each other."

"That's what my science teacher says," Jason said. "So . . . university is like middle school?" He felt disappointment well up inside.

"Yes and no," Rob said, smiling a little. "You have a much bigger pool of people to look over for friends. You'll have a lot more freedom in some ways too. It'll be up to you to take yourself to class and get things done. You won't have someone cooking meals for you and doing your laundry, making sure you get your homework done." He paused. "You probably won't have as much trouble with that as other people will, though. I didn't."

Jason studied the older man. "Your mom," he said, remembering bits and pieces of personal history Rob had given him over the last year or so.

"Yeah," Rob said. "My mum. And my dad." He bit into his cookie.

"But I won't have anyone to help if I have questions," Jason said slowly. Rob's smile returned.

"Now that's where you're wrong, mate," he said, chewing. "You have questions, I'll be happy to give you a hand." He popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and with cheeks bulging, munched loudly. Jason snickered as Doctor Chandler entered the break area. She glanced at them, then turned away—but not before Jason saw a glimmer of a smile.

"Doctor Chandler," Rob said through a mouthful of cookie. He sounded cheerful. "What's new?"

"You just saw me in the patient's room," Chandler said flatly. She took a bottle of water from the fridge and opened it. "Have you copied those test results yet?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Rob said. "They'll be done by the end of the day."

Chandler gave him a hard stare. "You know, I could be documenting all the sexual harassment that goes on in this place," she said. "You might think about that before you speak to me."

"Yeah, okay. I'll keep that in mind," Rob said, though his tone made it more than clear he'd do no such thing. Chandler took a quick drink of water and headed for the patient's rooms. As she passed by Jason she gave him a sidelong look. To his astonishment she winked before she stalked off, shoulders squared. He watched her go, confusion uppermost in his mind.

"Don't bother trying to figure her out," Rob said. Jason glanced at him, startled. "She is what she is, but no one's really quite sure what that means and she likes to keep it that way. So, you need help with homework? Might as well make myself useful."

They were deep in the middle of a math problem when Mom showed up, loaded down with supplies. Rob hopped up to help her, but when Jason started to do the same thing Mom said "No, it's all right. Keep working." She smiled at him. Jason resumed his seat but didn't return to the problem. Instead he watched the two adults from the corner of his eye as they worked together. There was a lot of joking and teasing, and Jason sensed a mutual affection as well. It was similar to the way Mom acted around House, just not quite as intense. It was clear she thought of Rob as a second foster son however, and he saw her as . . . not quite a mom, but something along those lines.

_He doesn't like to let people get really close to him,_ Jason thought. _He's scared he'll be hurt or left behind again__._ The idea resonated with something deep inside himself; he understood it, but now for some reason that knowledge disturbed him. "Did you remember the baby carrots? Doctor Chandler put them on the list," he said just for something to say. Mom reached into a sack and held up a big plastic bag of carrots.

"Got 'em," she said. "And some Greek-style yogurt to make dip too, though I doubt Joy will use it. Oh well—if she doesn't want it I'll send it home with Roz."

"Why would _she_ want it?" Jason asked, puzzled. Mom gave him a smile.

"I happen to know she likes Greek yogurt," she said. "Let's finish up here and head for home. What should we have for dinner?"

_October 6th_

_7:30 a.m._

Jason got up with the sunrise, bringing in firewood and splitting more to put in the rack Dad had set up. Even though it was chilly, it felt good to be out in the early morning light working up a sweat; usually he slept in on Saturdays, but now he had an allowance to earn. Besides, he could sleep in on Sundays. And chopping logs was starting to pay off—his biceps had some definition and his hands were callused, not blistered.

When he came into the kitchen Mom was making breakfast. She was still in her everyday red chenille bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up, her bright curls in disarray, a disreputable-looking pair of flop-eared bunny slippers on her feet. Jason came up to peer over her shoulder. "Pancakes?" he said with some hope. "Do they have chocolate chips?"

"Yes indeed they do, dear." She turned her head and kissed his cheek. "Go get cleaned up, I need you to run an errand after you eat if you would please."

"_Mom . . ._" He made a big deal of scrubbing his cheek, but secretly he liked her demonstrations of affection.

He was on his second stack of pancakes when Dad came in. He ruffled Jason's hair as he passed by. "Firewood rack's lookin' good," he said, and there was genuine approval in his voice, still raspy with sleep. "Nice work." He came up behind Mom and slipped his arms around her. "Mornin'," he said, and gave her a kiss. "Any pancakes left? Maybe some eggs too?"

"There's plenty of everything as you well know," Mom said in a tart tone, but Jason could tell she was enjoying Dad's attention. "Grab a plate and get started."

"What errand do you want me to run?" Jason asked when Mom sat down at last.

"Take some things over to Roz," Mom said as she put pepper on her eggs. "Just a few odds and ends."

"Okay," Jason said slowly. He played with a last bite of pancake, disturbed by the secret everyone was keeping from him.

"Jason." He looked up. Mom watched him, her expression intent. "It's all right. You'll see."

He thought about that as he walked over to the farmhouse, a bagful of stuff cradled in the crook of his arm. What could they be hiding from him? It had to be personal, something House and Roz didn't want everyone to know of course, but what could it be? House was doing okay with his leg, and the bag held bottles of vitamins and mineral supplements along with the yogurt and some cookies—clues, but he didn't have a framework in which to fit them. Unless . . . Jason paused as he came to the gate at the other end of the lane. Something was wrong with Roz—that had to be it. Fear struck at him. But she hadn't looked sick the last time he'd seen her . . . With some trepidation he opened the gate and went into the yard, crossing it to knock at the back door.

"Come in," he heard Roz call, and did as she asked, careful to wipe his boots on the mat. She was in the kitchen, a white apron wrapped around her slender form. She smiled at him as she came forward to take the bag.

"Good morning, Jason. Thanks for bringing this over for me. Have you had breakfast?" He nodded, shy as always in her presence. "Take off your jacket and stay for a few minutes, get warmed up before you go home. It's cold out there today."

"What are you making?" he dared to ask after he'd done as she suggested. Roz put the container of yogurt in the fridge.

"Broccoli soup. I've been wanting to make a batch since the cooler weather came in."

"Broccoli," Jason said, and wrinkled his nose.

"You don't like it?" She chuckled. "Neither did Greg until I made this for him." She set several bottle of vitamins and supplements on the counter. Jason watched her as a plan hatched in his mind.

"Could you show me how to make it?" he asked. Maybe if he stuck around long enough, she'd tell him what was going on. And he'd get a recipe for dinner out of it too—even if he didn't like broccoli, Mom and Dad did.

"Sure. There's an extra apron in the drawer, put it on and we'll get started."

He did as she asked and went to the sink, where Roz filled a stock pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. She added two generous pinches of salt. "One of the things Poppi taught me is to work with seasoning, not just treat it as something you add at the end," she said. "Now we'll rinse the broccoli and cut it up."

There was an entire colander full of crowns, enough to feed an army by his standards. Roz cut the florets from the stems and gave them a thorough wash. "You want broccoli with tight dark green buds," she said. "Don't use it if you see yellow flowers, it's past its prime and won't taste right."

It didn't take long for the water to boil. Roz put the florets in the water and clapped the lid on the pot. "You keep an eye on that while I warm up the blender."

Jason stared at the pot. "Are you okay?" he said, and bit his lip; he hadn't meant to ask, not that way. He'd planned to ask few casual questions here and there, not just blurt it out like a little kid.

"I'm fine, Jason." Roz filled the blender with hot water and set it in the sink. She hesitated, then said quietly, "Actually I'm pregnant."

Jason turned to look at her in astonishment and some relief. "But House doesn't like kids," he said, and winced. He'd put his foot in it now.

Roz wiped her hands on her apron. She looked troubled, but she didn't answer his statement directly. Jason stored her reaction away for analysis later on. "Please don't tell anyone else," she said. "Well, you can tell Mandy if you want to. But it doesn't go any further than her, okay?"

"Okay," Jason said. Mandy wasn't the kind of person to spread gossip; he trusted her. "When are you going to have—have the baby?"

"The doctor thinks the end of April or early May."

He nodded. "What's it like?"

"Being pregnant?" Roz dumped broccoli stems and leaves in the compost bucket. "It's hard to put into words. There's just a sense of something being different. My sense of smell and taste is heightened, but for now that's about it."

"Cooking broccoli doesn't bother you?"

Roz smiled. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? No, it doesn't bother me." She came over to him. "Time to check on things. We'll test first with a knife." She had him cut a floret. "If it's still a little resistant but it cuts fairly easily, then it's ready. Don't cook it for more than two or three minutes though, or it'll be too mushy."

They drained the cooked broccoli in a colander with a pan underneath, and added some of the cooking water to the heated blender. "You get the nutrients back that way, and lots of flavor," Roz said. She put a cloth over the blender top and pulsed until the florets began to move, then kept her finger on the button until the broccoli had turned to a smooth puree. "Now we taste it again to see if it needs more salt," she said. "Want to give it a try?"

Jason hated showing his reluctance. "I don't know," he said, not wanting to give her an outright no.

"Okay, let's do this: I'll season it and then you sample, just a little tiny taste." Roz took a spoon from the dish rack and dipped a bit of puree, sampled it. She added a couple of pinches of salt to the blender and ran it again, then opened the top. She rinsed off the spoon, scooped out a morsel of the soup and offered it to him. "Take a chance, Jason."

Jason took the spoon, stared at the emerald-green puree, then tasted it. He swirled the stuff in his mouth, cautious at first, then with more enthusiasm. He was amazed at how mild and fresh it was.

"Pretty good, huh?" Roz said, smiling. "Simple too, just broccoli, sea salt and water. You can add whatever you like when you serve it, just make sure you only use one or two other flavors so you don't over-complicate things. I like it with a little olive oil and a sprinkle of _pecorino__,_ or sometimes a little _pesto_ swirled in. Greg usually wants a BLT or a burger on the side, but then he's a hopeless carnivore."

"That would make a good dinner, soup and sandwiches," Jason said. "I'll ask Mom to buy some broccoli when she goes into work on Monday." He hesitated. "Thanks," he said, and wished he didn't blush so easily.

"You're more than welcome," Roz said. "If you need help making it just call, okay? Tell your mother I said _grazie_ for the care package."

"_Grazie_," Jason repeated. He liked the way she said it.

It means thank you." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Come over for dinner next week, all right? Bring your parents. I'll show you how to make spaghetti sauce that doesn't come out of a jar."

"Sick," Jason said, pleased, and Roz laughed softly. She went to the cookie jar, opened it and extracted a large homemade chocolate chipster. "Payment," she said, and extended it to him. Jason didn't hesitate. He might have a big breakfast inside him, but there was always room for a good cookie.

"_Grazie_," he said, and held close the memory of Roz's green eyes twinkling with amusement while he devoured the cookie and made his way home.

**_Many thanks for reading. A review would be most welcome-reviews are a fic writer's only paycheck :) _**


	5. Chapter 5

**_(I'm posting a day early because we've got a huge tropical storm/nor'easter coming in Sunday night Eastern time, and it's a given that we'll lose power for a while. If you don't hear from me, it's not by choice. For all those in Sandy's path, be prepared and batten down the hatches, this is gonna be a bumpy ride. -B)_**

_October 21st_

_10:30 a.m._

When Greg first rises into wakefulness, it's to the smell of the furnace coming on for the first time, that dusty, strange perfume of positive ions, wreaking havoc on his olfactory senses. Slowly he turns his head and cracks open one eye to glance out the window. There's sunshine, but it's intermittent; he can just catch a glimpse of big black clouds racing across the sky. With a muffled groan he sinks deeper into the warmth of the bed. If it's going to rain he's got no plans to get up anytime soon.

He surfaces again a short time later, to find Roz perched on her side of the bed. Greg scopes out what she's putting on: thick socks—his, he notes with amused exasperation. They come all the way up to the middle of her calf, but she folds them down to make neat cuffs. Her dark hair is ruffled, and there's a bit of color in her cheeks. That means she's been up for a while, doing light housekeeping.

"Workaholic," he says by way of greeting. He's got morning voice, all raspy and gutteral. Roz glances back at him and offers a slight smile.

"Good morning," she says softly, and stretches out to give him a leisurely kiss. He enjoys it even as he analyzes her body language and cues. She doesn't hesitate to touch him, and she isn't tense or awkward . . . and yet there's a sense of withdrawal, as if there's a transparent barrier between them—as thin as a sheet of paper, but impossible to remove. Still, she lies next to him after the kiss ends, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

"How'd the prenatal appointment go on Friday?" he asks, just to see what her reaction will be.

"Fine," she says quietly.

"You've already made up your mind."

She sighs softly. "It may look that way, but I haven't." She moves just a little closer; her hand comes to rest on his chest. "I didn't lie when we decided not to have children. You explained your reasons, I agreed with them."

"So what the hell's the problem?" he says. "And while we're on the subject, telling everyone in sight that you're pregnant means you're setting things up so you'll have them on your side when you choose not to terminate."

Roz goes still. Then she rolls on her side and looks him in the face. "_No_," she says. Her moss-green eyes glitter with something like fear. "There are no sides here, Greg. Don't even start thinking like that. We are not going to end up in armed camps, do you hear me?" The vehemence in her words takes him aback.

"I didn't say armed camps," he says.

"That's what it turns into. It becomes you versus me. Once that happens, we're—we're done." She sounds bleak. This has to be coming from her childhood experiences with her mother. He decides to push a little harder.

"You could have fooled me. The counselor told us to tell one person—just one," he says. "You and that red-haired menace across the lane broke that promise too. What else am I supposed to think?"

Roz stares at him. Then she lowers her gaze. "I didn't mean to tell Jason," she says simply. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's easy to say after you've done what you want," he says, and can't keep the bitterness out of his words. Roz nods.

"You're right. For what it's worth, I won't tell anyone else."

They sit there in the quiet for a while, with just the cold sound of the rain splattering against the windows to keep them company. "The Heebster's outside," Roz says at last. "I'd better call him in before he gets drenched."

"You can clean up this whole mess if you do what you said you'd do," he says. "End the pregnancy. Problem solved."

"I wish it was that easy," she says.

"It is," he points out. "You made the decision when we talked about it—"

"Do you think I don't understand that? I know this breaks my promise to you." There's such desperation in her tone, something he's never heard in her before—the sound of a rational mind confronting an irrational impulse that refuses to budge.

"Then_ why?_" he asks, baffled. Roz won't look at him.

"Because it's yours," she says, just as she said before when they'd argued about this. When he doesn't answer her she gets up and leaves the room. She doesn't storm out, just slips through the doorway with her usual quiet grace. After a few moments he hears her call the cat.

When he comes into the kitchen she's making coffee—the regular stuff, so this is for him. Normally he'd come up and wrap his arms around her and cop a feel, mutter dirty words in her ear and enjoy the sound of her laughter. Now he stands and watches her, feeling shut out. She glances at him but says nothing.

"You have to make up your mind," he says. Might as well push this till it breaks; then he'll know if this really will be about armed camps despite her fine sentiments. "You need to do it soon, you know that."

Roz pours the water into the maker and shuts the lid. She stands there looking at it, then flips the switch. "I know," she says. She's a lonely figure standing there, but he won't let himself feel sympathy for her; she brought this on herself. There's nothing left to say, so he leaves the kitchen and goes into the living room, to settle on the couch and watch tv until breakfast is ready.

They eat in the living room in silence, the tv and Hellboy's chirps the only sounds. He's just finished when the phone rings. Roz gets up to answer. After a few words she holds the receiver out to him. "It's Hazel. She wants to talk with you," she says. As he takes the phone she collects up the plates and goes into the kitchen, closes the door. Greg watches her, then turns his attention to the phone.

"_What_?" he growls.

"Good morning to you too," The Russian says, with that imperturbable good nature of hers that drives him crazy and amuses him at the same time. "No coffee yet, I take it."

"You're not getting an extra session fee out of this," he says, just to be rude.

"Since I'm talking exclusively to you, that would indicate this is not a session." She pauses. "Obviously you're not up for social niceties, so I'll get right to the point. I want to apologize for what I said in our last discussion."

"Plenty to apologize for," he says after a moment, surprised.

"That's as may be, but I'm referring specifically to remarks I made about how you don't consider yourself good father material." Varobyov sighs a little. "I shouldn't have implied that your choice not to have children is a flawed or wrong one because of any ideas you have about your ability to parent. If you don't want kids, that's a perfectly legitimate decision."

"Mind telling my wife that?" Greg says, secretly impressed by this admission. "She seems to think otherwise."

"Does she?" Varobyov says quietly. "That's not what I got from our last session. I'd say she's caught between the Scylla and Charybdis on this."

It's the same thing Gene said, more or less. Greg considers the possibility. "Balls," he says. "Either you keep promises or you don't."

"I understand what you're saying," Varobyov says. "I think Roz feels the same way. That's why she's agonizing over this. She's a singularly honest woman, in case you hadn't noticed. For her to have conflicting feelings when she made a promise to you is a terrifying situation for her. If she really didn't care about keeping her word, she'd be out buying baby clothes and nudging people to give her a huge shower with all kinds of goodies. Instead she's ripping her heart to shreds because she's terrified you'll leave her, and yet she can't bring herself to destroy something she sees as part of you."

"That's emotional blackmail," he complains. "Technically there's part of me in the process, but it's not some widdle Greggy House clone being hatched."

"You're dealing with human nature," the Russian counters. "I'm not telling you to condone what you perceive as irrational behavior, but understanding would be a big help."

She's got him there. "So I'm supposed to just accept as a given the eventual pitter-patter of tiny feet in the House homestead?" he snaps. "What the fuck was the point of making a promise if it's okay to break it the second some hormonal tidal wave of emotion swamps every last vestige of logic my wife can claim?"

"You're assuming she's already decided to keep it. Listen when Roz talks to you," Varobyov says. "State your position but don't throw ultimatums at her, she'll just get defensive and shut down. She needs help working through this. You can do that for her, if you're able to conquer your own fear of rejection and being hurt."

"No advice about what to do if she decides not to terminate then? You're falling down on the job."

"You aren't there yet. Don't cross that bridge until you get to it." There's a little pause. "There are no easy answers here, Gregory. Resist the urge to make everything either-or. Right now the best thing you can do is let Roz know you're listening to what she has to say. Now I'd like to talk with her alone, please."

Without another word he gets up and goes into the kitchen. Roz is standing at the sink, rinsing off her hands. Greg puts the phone on the counter next to her and moves toward the bedroom. He needs to get out of the house for a while—never mind the weather, a change of scenery will do him some good, let him clear his mind.

He gets dressed and puts on his sneakers, makes his way through the living room where Roz is now curled up on the couch with the phone and the cat, and goes into the kitchen. He grabs his jacket and keys and heads out the door.

It's a nasty day, grey and spitting cold rain and wind; he jumps into Barbarella and fires her up, gives her a minute to get warm and circulate some oil. He's not quite sure where he'll go, maybe the bar in town where he can have a couple of beers and shoot a rack of pool and watch the game. That he would rather be at home snuggled with his wife on their comfortable couch is something he won't let himself think about. So off to town he goes.

The bar is quiet; there are a couple of guys nursing a glass or a long-neck bottle, watching the tv. The bartender, Ed, nods at him when he walks in. "Afternoon," he says, and Greg gives his watch a surreptitious glance. Sure enough, it's half past twelve. "What'll ya have?"

He orders a draft beer and sits at the bar, his eyes on the tv while he thinks about what the Russian said. That she makes eminent good sense cannot be denied; still, he doesn't really care because what he wants is someone to just fucking agree with him and stop screwing around with concepts like 'human nature' and 'dilemma'.

On a mental sigh he takes a swallow of beer. It's cold and crisp, malty and possessed of a clean bitterness he'd thoroughly enjoy on any other day. He lets his gaze linger on the tv, noting the game hasn't started yet—it's just talking heads yammering on about stats and other crap, as usual. And it occurs to him as he sits there that he's just done what millions of other husbands do on Sunday—fled the house, ostensibly to hoist a few beers and enjoy a football game or two, but really to escape domestic travail.

The realization floors him. His old man did this kind of thing all the time; he never seemed that comfortable at home, probably because he was away far more than he was in residence. Mom put up with it because she didn't have a choice, but she never seemed to mind all that much anyway; she'd gotten used to his absence too, and more than likely enjoyed her freedom from his rigid control. Greg takes another mouthful of beer. Now here he is, as predictable and hopeless as John House in his prime. He never thought he'd do something this pathetic, but as someone once said in a long-ago conversation, all men at some time in their lives become _that guy_.

For lack of anything better to do he pulls a bowl of pretzels over, though he's still comfortably full from breakfast, and selects a broken specimen from the top of the pile. As he munches it a tall, lean form settles in next to him. "Hey," Gene says. Greg glances over.

"Keeping tabs?" he asks, his words dripping with sarcasm. Gene gives him a look of mild surprise.

"Nope. Should I be?"

"What the hell are you doing here then?"

"Just decided to take a couple of hours out of the house. Sarah's workin' on the carpets and Jason's over at Mandy's, so I'm making myself scarce." He nods at the bartender. "Hey, Ed. Bud draft, please."

"Not gonna ask what I'm doing here?" Greg sips his beer.

Gene takes his pint. He gives Greg a quick sidelong glance, then looks over at a table in the corner. So they end up sitting there, of course. Greg takes the bowl of pretzels with him. "Okay, what's up?" Gene says quietly.

"I should be at home." The words slip out. Gene snitches a couple of pretzels from the bowl.

"My dad used to spend the entire weekend at the corner bar," he says after a brief silence. "He'd disappear on Friday after work. We'd catch a few glimpses of him until Sunday afternoon after church, when Mom would put dinner on the table. Then he'd show up, stuff his face and fall asleep on the couch until Monday morning." He contemplates a pretzel, then eats it.

"I don't plan to drink my paycheck," Greg says.

"That's good." Gene takes a swallow of beer.

"We talked." The words keep popping out of him. "It wasn't an argument, not exactly . . ."

"She's still struggling." Gene sat back a bit. "Tough place for both of you to be in."

"I'm fine," Greg snaps. "She's the one who needs to make up her mind."

"It can't be easy for you to watch her going through this." There is quiet compassion in Gene's voice. Greg takes a defiant swallow of beer.

"She's making this way harder than it has to be. I'm not feeling sorry for her."

"I think you sympathize whether you like it or not," Gene says. He munches another pretzel.

"What, no lecture?" Greg says after a brief silence.

"Nothing to lecture about. Roz is conflicted; you're waiting for her to resolve it so you can both move forward. What else is there to do?"

"Next you're gonna tell me I should be at home cuddling with my honey and our little bun in the oven." Greg snorts. "Some authority figure you are."

"Authority figure, my ass. I'm a guy who hands out pain meds for a living and plays guitar in a garage band. I'm fakin' it all the way." Gene grins at him, a brief flash of white teeth in his dark features. Greg snorts and feels a faint, unwilling amusement. "I'll just tell you what I've learned for myself: trust your woman. She'll make the right decision."

There's nothing he can say to that; if he disagrees, he's a jerk. If he agrees, he's a jerk who's causing trouble just to cause it—not that he's exactly unfamiliar with that accusation, but right now it stings more than it used to in the old days.

"It's hard to let go when you know you're right," Gene says. "Roz understands, more than you think she does. That's why she's having such a tough time with this. Give her a chance."

They sit and watch the game for a while. Then Greg gets up and tosses a five on the table. Without saying a word he leaves the bar.

The house is quiet when he comes in. He takes off his jacket and dumps it on a convenient chair, leaves his keys on the counter and ventures into the living room. Roz is nowhere in sight. A little chill of apprehension goes through him. Slowly he heads for the bedroom, opens the door. She's lying on her side on their bed, curled in on herself, her arm over her head. As he watches she moves a little, and he realizes with a shock that she's crying. She's not sobbing or sniveling, just shaking with a silent distress that frightens him with its intensity. He doesn't know what to do—stay or go, so he hovers there, helpless, until finally he backs away and closes the door, then makes his way to the couch and sits down, to stare at the wall opposite him.

_You caused this_, that cold little voice deep inside whispers. _You'll lose her, you know you will. They always flee the state when you mess things up because when you do, you smash everything to hell__._

An inquisitive chirp brings him out of his thoughts. Hellboy sits at his feet looking up at him, golden eyes bright and questioning. Out of pure reflex Greg reaches down and scratches the cat's head. The little animal arches against his touch, purring; his silky black fur is warm and soft. Greg is ashamed to find he's comforted a bit by contact with another living being, even if it is just a cat.

"You should leave," he mutters. "It's gonna get bad here. Go hang out in the barn or tell the Goldmans to take you in."

Hellboy responds by jumping onto the couch. He sits next to Greg, then folds himself down so he's snuggled against Greg's left thigh, his eyes narrowed to slits, his purr a bit louder to indicate satisfaction. Greg feels the slight weight settle in. He glances at the bedroom door, from which no sound comes at all, then leans back. Eventually he reaches behind him for the phone, holds it for a moment, then speed-dials the first number. It's answered on the second ring.

"Hey," Sarah says. At the sound of her cheerful voice Greg closes his eyes. "What's up?"

He wants to answer her but the words are stuck in his throat. All he can do is sit there, ineffectual, useless, pathetic.

"Greg?" She sounds concerned now. "Are you all right?"

He manages to get something out finally. "No," he says, his voice rough, ugly.

"I'm on my way." And with that she's gone. He ends the call, dumps the phone on the couch and puts his hand gently on Hellboy's back, glad to feel the quiet rise and fall of breath, and the soft rusty purr accompanying it.

**_Thanks for reading! A review would be most welcome. Reviews are a fic writer's only paycheck! :)_**


	6. Chapter 6

**_(This chapter makes use of an unfinished one-shot I wrote two years ago, from a suggestion by fellow fic author mmgage. Reader discretion is advised for explicit sexual content and some bad language. I'm not really a fan of Nickelback's music, but the song used to create Greg's memory made me laugh. Enjoy-B)_**

Sarah made her way up the steps to the kitchen door and knocked, then came in. She wiped her feet on the mat, slipped out of her boots, removed her coat and hung it on the rack, then entered the kitchen. The house was quiet, not even the tv playing. With caution she advanced to the doorway and peered into the living room. Greg sat on the couch with his head tipped back, the cat curled up at his side. There was no sign of Roz.

"Hey," Sarah said softly, and took a step into the room. Greg's head came up. He stared at her. The look of mingled antagonism and anxiety in his expression made her heart sink; she was reminded of their first session together at Mayfield so long ago. Her first impulse was to comfort; she knew if she gave into it she'd lose him. It would have to be tough love, at least at first. He was in no mood for emotional persuasion of any kind, and he'd push her away with mind games if she let him. "Okay if I come in?"

He didn't say anything, just looked away. Sarah entered the living room, took a seat in the easy chair to the right of the couch and waited.

"She's in the bedroom." Greg's voice was harsh, as it had been on the phone. Sarah heard the fear in his words.

"What happened?" she asked softly, and made sure to keep her own voice calm and matter-of-fact.

"Take a good guess." Greg scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Did you have a fight?"

He glared at her. "Stupid question."

"Not from my side of things." Sarah sat back. "Give me something to work with here, son."

Greg dropped his gaze to the floor. "We . . . talked this morning. I left for a while. When I came back I found her crying."

"What's going on?" This time she put just a bit of steel in her voice—a trick she'd learned over the summer with Jason. It had much the same effect on Greg. He hunched his shoulders but answered her.

"She's still trying to find a way to get out of her promise."

"Just my opinion, but if she really was doing that she wouldn't be ripping herself to shreds right now."

"It figures you'd be on her side." Greg sent her a hostile look before he returned his gaze to the floor.

"I'm not taking sides because there are none." She waited, but he said nothing. "Have you both talked to Hazel about this?"

"She called here." That was an evasion—not quite a lie, not quite the truth.

"Have you talked to her together?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'together'," Greg said.

"You know what I mean by that." Sarah got to her feet. "Fine. If all you're do is gonna mess with me and play some lameass game of Twenty Questions, I have a carpet to clean—"

"Sit down!" Greg glanced at the bedroom door, then sent Sarah another angry stare. "No, we didn't talk to the Russian together. There's no point. She wants us to 'discuss' this mess, which is the advice of a moron."

"Why?" Sarah resumed her seat.

"Either my wife keeps her promise or she doesn't. It's that simple. And if I have to say it one more time, I'd better get paid damn good money for repeating myself."

"It's not that simple—"

"Everyone says that but it's not true!" Greg knotted his hands together between his knees.

"It sounds to me like there's a part of you that maybe thinks it _is_ true," Sarah said softly. "Why are you so insistent that it isn't?"

Greg groaned. "_I don't want kids_. How fucking hard is that for everyone to understand? I never wanted any, never thought about having any. Watching Wilson deal with his dying bald cancer runts over the years and then Cuddy and her designer crack baby. . . it just reinforced everything I'd already known."

"Children are a liability," Sarah said. "They're expensive, messy, unpredictable, easily broken. They drive you nuts with incessant and illogical demands, they don't learn, they don't listen . . . it's like living with insane people."

"And you'd know all about that." Greg essayed a long look at her. "You won't change my mind by agreeing with me."

"Son, you have every right not to want children, there's nothing wrong with that. What I'd like you to do is understand that decision, mainly because you should acknowledge the reasons why you feel that way. At the moment, fear is clouding your vision."

"I think it's far more interesting to look at why _you_ think I need to explore this," he said. "Seems to me there's plenty of wish fulfillment and not a little jealousy going on. You'd love to have a kid."

Sarah felt that old familiar stab of pain deep inside. "Yes, I would," she said quietly. Greg looked a bit disconcerted. "Well of _course_ I would," she said with some impatience. "How could I not? But imposing my own desires on you and Roz is not what I'm here for or want to do. I understand you both reached an agreement about no children before you were married. I also know Roz was being honest when she made that agreement with you. You're well aware she's an especially truthful person. What I'm interested in is why you're so adamant about no kids. There's more going on, and you need to look at it before you can talk to her again."

"So this is down to me," he said, and there was bitterness in his words. "You're saying it's my fault."

"_No_. I'm not assigning blame." Sarah paused. "You know I think that's a waste of time." She went on, choosing her words with care. "In order for you to help Roz work through this dilemma, you should understand your own motives in making the agreement in the first place. I'm saying it's not enough to say 'no kids'. It would help her if you could explain in-depth why you've taken that position. She's a rational person. If you give her reasons, she'll listen to you."

Greg hesitated. "Bullshit," he said, but without conviction.

"Uh uh," Sarah said. "Truth, more like." She folded her hands. "So, you up for some self-exploration? It's been a while, but I think you'll get the hang of it again pretty quickly."

"_Fuck_," Greg groaned, but Sarah saw his shoulders come down a bit and knew she was headed in the right direction. He was on the verge of flight, but her persistence was familiar and something he could resist; it also gave him an excuse to stay, one to which he'd never admit but he'd use all the same. The knowledge warmed her.

"Let's start with your earliest memory of knowing you wouldn't have children. How old were you?"

"I didn't say I'd do this," Greg protested, but when she raised her brows he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, okay. I was three. God came to me in a vision and told me since I was an immaculate conception, there wasn't any need for other kids in my family, then or ever."

"Oh, good grief," Sarah said, and gave in to a chuckle. "Smartass kid." She had the satisfaction of seeing him relax another fraction. "How old were you really?"

"Two. Didn't want to brag."

"_Gregory_ . . ."

He fidgeted and looked at his feet. "Seven."

"That's pretty early on," Sarah said mildly. Shock caught at her, but only for a moment or two. Undoubtedly Greg's extraordinary intelligence and acumen had been there from the beginning. "You didn't even know what sex was at that age."

"Sure I did," Greg said absently. He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. "I'd snuck a copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ from the library by then. I had the mechanics figured out at least."

So her presumption was correct. Sadness filled her heart for the confused and lost child he'd been, still was to some extent. She didn't let it shake her resolve, however. "Okay, you were seven. Why did you make that decision so young?"

Greg didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, still chafing his hands. When he did speak his voice was low, hesitant. "It was at a birthday party for some boy I'd just met—we'd moved to a new base and Mom wanted me to make friends, though by then I knew it was a waste of time for . . . for numerous reasons, not the least of which was my sparkling personality." He trailed off, then continued. "There were other kids there, maybe ten or so. Most had their mothers with them—back in the day when most military wives didn't have to work outside the home to make ends meet. I was milling around waiting for cake when I heard two women talking about their children. Comparing notes, bragging rights, that sort of thing."

"Go on," Sarah said when he fell silent.

"The first mother . . . she couldn't yammer enough about her oldest girl. All As on her report card—though how hard could it have been, considering she was in second grade, I mean, come _on_ . . . Best in her music class, great swimmer, blah blah. The second mom didn't say much of anything until the first asked about her boy. And she said 'He's great at being a pain in my backside'." Greg lifted his head. His eyes glittered. "It wasn't so much what she said but how she said it, with disgust almost bordering on hatred . . . and I knew it was because her son had disappointed her in some way she wouldn't forgive. The absolute, overwhelming power of her emotion . . . I never wanted to feel that way about anyone, but especially a child of mine."

"So you knew even then you were capable of such depth of emotion," Sarah said softly. Greg nodded.

"Oh yeah. I already knew I could hate just fine." The bleakness in that observation made her heart ache. She set the feeling aside.

"And you knew others could feel that way about you too," she said, treading with care on what she recognized as dangerous ground. Greg lifted his head to glare at her.

"You mean dear dead Daddy," he snapped. "Don't sidestep, just say it. Yeah, he hated me with pretty much every breath he took."

"You're missing something," Sarah said quietly. "For his feeling to be that intense, there had to be an equally powerful love or affection that preceded it."

"He never loved me." The flat tone belied the bleakness beneath it.

"What makes you say that?"

"What the _fuck_ do you think?" In one fluid motion Greg was on his feet. Sarah drew in a breath, startled by both the ability and the way it was done, without thought or effort. His right leg was stronger, and he was beginning to take it for granted just a little. It made her want to do cartwheels around the room. _Concentrate!_ she warned herself, and watched with secret delight as Greg paced back and forth. "From the time I was two it was discipline, rules, do as I say or else. He never-" He stopped, but continued his restless movement.

"Is it possible that he was telling you he cared in the only way he knew how?" Sarah said. "You've told me your father never talked much about his own childhood. It's likely he was raised in a household with strict discipline and few if any kind words."

Greg didn't answer, but his pacing slowed. Sarah knew he was focused on what she was saying, however. She recognized that intense look from long acquaintance.

"What your father did was wrong. It was abuse, whether he meant it to be or not. But it might have been the only way he knew how to show you he cared. On some level, you know that. And it has you terrified you'll do the same thing to a child of your own."

"Oh, here it comes," Greg said. He sounded disgusted. "You just can't resist trying to change my mind—"

"I'm _not!_" Sarah snapped. "Stop tryin' to make me an enemy! What I'm attempting to get through that stubborn head of yours is that you need to examine why you feel the way you do and understand it! Otherwise you're no better than any of the patients who come to see you and refuse to tell you how they got into the state they're in."

"So you're a firm believer in 'to thine own self be true'," he said. His eyes glittered like frost. "Hypocrite much?"

"Boy howdy, you're right. No one is more aware of my shortcomings than I am," Sarah said without hesitation. "I fall down on the job a lot. But I do my best to pick myself up and keep going. Sometimes I have to be poked with a big sharp stick to do it. But so do you."

Greg had the grace to look a bit abashed. He moved in a slow-motion lope to the couch and sank into it. "I know he didn't care," he said after a few moments. "You can't convince me otherwise."

Sarah ignored this comment. "What else?"

"Huh?" Greg blinked.

"What else comes to mind? Earliest memories," she reminded him.

"Uh . . . high school. Had a pregnancy scare with a girlfriend. Well, she wasn't really a girlfriend. More like an unexpected opportunity."

Sarah leaned forward. She sensed rich pickings. "Do tell," she said. Greg took a deep breath. He looked toward the bedroom door once more, then directed his gaze to the floor.

"I was one year away from escaping home and high school for good . . ."

_(October 1976_

_Cherry Point Marine Air Station_

_near Havelock, North Carolina_

"_So, ya wanna see my new car?" _

_What's his name—Mark, that was it-was almost bursting with pride. Greg nodded, careful to make sure his expression gave nothing away. He'd cultivated this acquaintance for a full three months now just to get to this moment; he wasn't going to mess things up at such a critical stage._

"_Sure." He was careful to sound enthusiastic but not too eager._

_They entered the darkened garage. Mark flipped on the light. Greg's eyes widened._

"_Holy _shit_," he said under his breath. _

"_Brand new '76 Camaro." Mark sounded like he'd built it himself. "The engine's a stock 305, but my dad says he's gonna help me fix it up."_

_Greg took a quick hit off his beer and ran a slow, gentle finger down the glossy stripe on the hood. "This sure is one sweet ride."_

"_Earned it with a three point two GPA this past semester." Mark puffed out his chest and swigged his beer. "Just got my license too." He eyed Greg with curiosity. "How about you?"_

"_Same here," Greg said. _No way am I telling this loser Dad confiscated mine last year. Besides, a three two grade point with the courses they teach here is totally pathetic. What a moron. Typical jock._ "Let's take it out, see how it rides."_

"_I dunno, man. It's Saturday night, the MPs will be out and we've both been drinkin' . . ." Mark's voice trailed off as Greg opened the passenger side door and got in. After a moment's hesitation he shrugged, pulled the keys out of his pocket and followed suit._

"_I gotta stop and put some gas in the tank if we're gonna cruise," Mark said once they had navigated their quiet suburb and reached Main Street._

"_That's cool. Can you pick me up some smokes?" Greg offered a sheepish smile. "My dad took mine."_

"_Yeah, sure." Mark returned the smile with a conspirator's edge to it. "I have to hide mine in a new spot every day or my old man would find 'em and kick my ass."_

_Greg snickered. "Dickwad."_

_"Yeah, but he's just tryin' t'be a good dad so it's okay." There was an affection in the other boy's words that grated on Greg. He didn't answer, just looked out the window at the passing scenery._

_A few minutes later Mark pulled into a gas station on the edge of town, one all the kids knew didn't care what age you were as long as you had the money to pay for what you were buying. He'd returned from buying a pack of Marlboros when Greg smacked his forehead. "Man, I'm sorry. Could you make it Camels? Marlboros make me fart__."_

_Mark sent him a strange look which Greg ignored. "Uh . . .yeah, okay. Be right back."_

_Greg waited until Mark was well inside the store before he slithered into the driver's seat and cranked over the engine. It started up without hesitation. He put it into reverse, caught a glimpse of the boy's head turning, his mouth a foolish O of surprise and burgeoning consternation. A laugh bubbled up from deep inside. _He looks so stupid, like a fish out of water! _"Dumbass!" Greg__ said out loud, and laughed again as he turned a corner and took off down the street. _

_Half an hour later he'd somehow strayed into the next town and was rambling a bit aimlessly through one of the pricier off-base housing areas when he saw a flash of movement. He slowed the car. In the fading light it was just possible to distinguish a human figure—a girl, climbing down the side of a house using a trellis for a ladder. It was obvious she was sneaking out past a curfew or grounding. Greg stopped the car and leaned all the way over, cranked the passenger side window down__._

"_Hey!" he hissed. The girl paused, looking around. Greg revved the engine a l__ittle. "Hey!" he dared to call a little louder. The girl dropped to the grass and straightened, her face turned toward him. She halted, checked the window behind her, glanced both ways, then sprinted for the car. Greg sat up and popped the door-barely in time, as she came barreling toward him. _

"_Get in, just get in!" he growled. She wrenched the door wide and slid hard enough to smack into his side._

"_GO GO GO!" she yelled, and he took off down the street, tires squealing._

_They were a block away when she said "You're Colonel House's kid, aren't you? You're in my brother's advanced calculus class." She gave him a cheeky smile, but her green eyes were cool and speculative. "Heard you're a bad boy."_

"_Define bad," Greg said. The girl laughed and came closer, pressing up against him. _

"_You're kinda cute," she said. Her breath tickled his ear. She kissed his lips, a flash of heat and pressure, like a lightning strike. Greg gave her a glance, startled. She kissed him again, slipping her tongue inside his mouth, a quick taste that had him struggling to concentrate on his driving. "Let's find out how bad you really are," she said when the kiss ended, and put a hand between his knees. Greg fought to keep his eyes on the road as she began to unzip his jeans. He jumped almost a foot when her fingers slid inside his briefs to liberate his penis. _

"Hey!_" he yelped._

"_Wow, you're really hung," she said admiringly. "Tall guys always are." She gave his balls a squeeze. Greg made a strangled sound, his hands clu__tching the steering wheel. "Listen, you're like not a virgin or anything, are you?"_

"_No," he lied through gritted teeth, and groaned as her long blonde hair tickled his thigh through his open fly. _

"_Too bad," she said, "I like first-timers," and laughed. Then her mouth closed around him as she swallowed him whole, and he nearly sent the car into the ditch in sheer unbelieving ecstasy, blood roaring in his ears as she worked him to the point of explosion. _

_They ended up parked by the tracks, a desolate area well-known as a makeout spot. By the time they'd crawled into the back seat Greg was sure he'd died and gone to heaven. Not only was this chick willing, she wanted to play games he'd only dreamed of while getting his rocks off over worn-out copies of _National Geographic_ or the occasional porno rag he'd managed to shoplift. Now they lay in a sixty-nine position, so that he faced her spread thighs upside down. It was the first time he'd ever seen anyone's genitals this close up; fascinated, he parted her labia and watched as layers of petal-pink skin opened, revealing a rosy little nub hidden away. _What do I do?_ he wondered, a little panicked at the thought of his inexperience being revealed. The girl had no such problem, however. She was busy stroking his hardening shaft once more with her tongue, her hands caressing and squeezing his ass as she worked on him. He took a clue from her actions and put his face in her sex. When his lips touched her clitoris she gave a funny shudder._

"_Oh y__eah," she moaned, "come on, don't hold out on me . . ."_

_Emboldened by this small success Greg kissed her, exploring the hot wet folds. She tasted sweet and smoky, a combination he found exciting and just a little weird. On inspired impulse he put his lips over her clitoris and sucked. A muffled squeal escaped her as she pushed her hips up into his face. He hung on, buffeted by her reaction and his own growing need for release, only just realizing he was clutching a really lovely ass when suddenly she spit him out and gasped __"I want you in me!"_

"Huh?_"_

"_Your _cock_, stupid! Come on, let's do it!"_

"_I—I don't have a rubber," he said with reluctance__._

"_Oh, who cares! Here—" She dug in the pocket of the jeans now puddled around her ankles and came out with a Three Musketeers wrapper. "Use this!" _

_It took some maneuvering but eventually he was buried inside her, struggling to hang on while she bucked and moaned beneath him. The wrapper felt weird on his penis, clingy and sticky; he wanted to take it off and experience her hot slick walls first-hand, so to speak, but the consequences . . . He pulled his mind away from rational thought—not a difficulty under the circumstances—and let himself sink into her, savor the delicious feel of her boobs pressed against his chest, her hands squeezing his ass as they writhed together-_

"_What was that?"_

_Greg tried to focus. "Uh-wha-?"_

"_I heard something." She sounded scared._

"_It's just the wind," Greg said. "We're alone__—" His reassurance was cut of__f by her scream._

"_OH MY GOD! THAT'S MY DAD OUTSIDE THE CAR!"_

_Instant terror had him wilting even as he yanked out of her and scrabbled to climb into the front seat, zip up his jeans and start the engine all at once. But the keys weren't in the ignition. Greg stared at the empty slot, then at the floor. He caught the gleam of silvery metal peeking out from under a floormat. In desperation he started to reach down to snatch them, only to be hauled upright by a rough hand grabbing the collar of his tee shirt. The door was wrenched open and he was dragged out, to be pushed against the side of the car and pinned in place. _

"_What the _hell _do you think you're doing with my daughter, you little punk?"_

_SHIT. Greg dared to open his eyes and found his field of vision filled with a red, angry face. _

"_I was just kissing her," he said, and flinched as he was slammed against the hard metal._

"_What's your name, boy?"_

"_Mark Hooper," he said, and earned himself another brutal slam. _

"_Don't lie to me! I know Mark and you're not him. Lemme see your ID."_

_An hour later Greg sat in the back of his dad's Chevy, watching the MPs drive off into the night. When Dad got in Greg gave a silent sigh. _Here it comes,_ he thought._

"_I__'m sure I__ don't have to tell you you're in a shit-wagonload of trouble," John House said. He sounded both disgusted and contemptuous. "You're fortunate the General decided not to press charges. I won't be so easy on you." He paused. "We'll discuss the terms of your discipline once we're home, but I'll tell you now you're getting twenty twice a day with the buckle end for the next two weeks__.__ And you're grounded for the rest of the year. No music, no tv, no books except school texts.__"__ He started the car. "You'd better never have kids. They'd all turn out like you, you worthless piece of shit.__"__)_

Silence fell at the end of the story. "Was she pregnant?" Sarah asked finally. She'd always figured Greg's first sexual experience had either been a spectacular embarrassment or a string of defiant gestures against authority, but not both at the same time; yet here was proof, if his story was to be believed.

"False alarm. Her dad decided to transfer just to get her away from me. Said I was a bad influence on his girl." Greg snorted. "He wanted to press charges, but she'd had so many guys before me she should have had 'welcome' tattooed on her twat. Our family lawyer would have made sure that came out in court proceedings. So he took the easier course."

"Family lawyer," Sarah said, and watched Greg flinch. "So this wasn't your first brush with trouble." He said nothing. "How many times did John House tell you not to have kids?"

Greg hesitated. "Aren't you clever," he said softly, but his tone was inimical. "So that's your solution. Blame it on dear old dad and I'll be free to accept the little bundle of joy my sweetie's determined to give me."

"_No_," Sarah said in exasperation. "Stop putting words in my mouth.I said from the start this was about understanding why you feel the way you do, not an attempt to change your mind."

"You can't possibly believe that just because my un-father told me I shouldn't have kids that it's the basis of my own decision."

"I don't think it's the whole reason, but in my opinion it's a large chunk," Sarah said. "You're the one who still has John House's ceremonial sword tucked away in the back of your closet. I think his opinion meant far more to you than you've ever admitted to anyone else, and that's a logical outcome. For better or worse, he was your father in all the ways that count." She looked up as the bedroom door opened. Roz stood in the doorway, arms folded tight around her middle, her pale face streaked with tears. She seemed surprised to see them both.

"You left," she said at last, looking at Greg.

"Yeah," he said, clearly discomfited. Roz came over to him and stopped a few feet away.

"No, I mean . . . you-you _left_," she said. Her breath hitched. Greg looked horrified.

"It wasn't like that," he said, harsh and loud. Roz completed the distance between them and sat on his right. She didn't say anything more, just took his hand in both of hers. Sarah understood it was her cue to leave. Undoubtedly she and Greg would talk later, but for now she'd leave Roz to her own healing work. In silence Sarah got up, gathered her jacket and left, slipping quietly into the gathering dusk of late afternoon.

_'Animals,' Nickelback_

**_Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are a fic writer's only paycheck! :)_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**(Many thanks to everyone for reviews and also for favoriting the story, it's much appreciated. Here's an extra chapter to tide you over till Monday, hope you like it. If you can, please listen to the music listed at the end of the chapter. For me it comes closest to the music Greg composed for Roz in InTheHouse's wonderful story **_**Coda**_**. You can find it at YouTube or on iTunes; my favorite version is from Oscar's **_**Live in Paris**_** album. **_

_**Got a fic recommendation for you-clp66 has a new story up in the Susan Chronicles, called **_**Journey Back**_**. If you haven't read her stories, you've got plenty to catch up on! Check it out and please leave a review, it's a fic writer's only paycheck! :) -B)**_

Roz looked down at Greg's hand in both of hers. "I heard the car," she said. "You—you left."

"I came home. You were crying." He made it sound like an accusation, but his fingers tightened on hers gently.

"I thought . . ." She hesitated. "It doesn't matter."

Greg took a deep breath. "Tell me."

"You don't really want me to," she said. He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

"Just do it. I'm listening. That might not be true five seconds from now."

Roz nodded. "Okay. That's fair." She stared at their linked hands. "When . . . when I was a kid, people were always . . . disappearing. I never knew who would be there in the morning when I woke up. There was usually a big loud fight first, a lot of yelling. And then either Mom or her current man would be gone. Sometimes . . ." She felt a distant echo of old fear. "Sometimes it was both."

"You think I'd do that?" The pain in Greg's voice hurt her. "You believe I'd just go?"

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," she said, unable to be anything but honest. "I know I'm being stupid-"

"Stop it. If I ever decide to leave, I'll tell you first. I'm not one of your idiot mother's sleazy one-night stands, I'm your sleazy husband." That startled a shaky laugh out of her. "Hah. See, I know what you're thinking."

"You're not sleazy," Roz said, unable to keep from smiling a bit. "Cheesy at times, yeah. But I kinda like that."

They sat in silence for a few moments, but now it was less tense. At last Greg spoke. "What about you? Would you just-" He fell silent.

"I wouldn't just disappear. I'd come to you, talk, try to work things out. Even if we couldn't, I'd still stay if you'd let me." Roz gave his hand a squeeze. "It hasn't gotten to that point though, and it won't if I have anything to say about it."

"You have a lot of say." His grip tightened. "Everyone I've ever . . . ever lived with has walked, sooner or later. You wouldn't want to be just another woman in a long line, would you?"

Roz swallowed on a lump in her throat. The hidden anguish in his words wounded her deeply. "No," she said. "No, I wouldn't. And I won't be."

"Good." He didn't look at her, but she felt him give a little shudder.

"_Amante_," she said softly, "we won't break up, no matter what happens. We'll work through this together. I don't want to be anywhere but here, with you. Even when things are tough, I love you."

He nodded, though he wouldn't look at her. They sat there, at peace for the moment.

"Would you do something for me?" she asked when the silence lengthened. "Would you play? Anything is fine. I just . . . I'd like that."

"It won't solve the problem," Greg said. Still, he got to his feet and brought her with him. Together they went over to the piano, but when she would have moved away to sit in the easy chair he patted the bench. It was a signal honor, she knew that now. She claimed the spot next to him, watched as he opened the cover and stroked the keys, a gesture he never failed to make, then began to play. It took him a little time but soon enough he was immersed in the music, head bowed over the keyboard, eyes closed. She watched those long, clever fingers find the notes without hesitation, their touch respectful, took in the peace and reverence in his expression; while she knew she held a place in his heart, this was his first great and abiding love. She didn't mind because he was willing to share it, in fact he often invited her to sit at his side when he played. She suspected he hadn't done that with many other people, perhaps not at all until she came along.

So she let herself fall under the spell the music created. It was the piece he'd written for her: sweet, pensive, simple and yet complex, he'd said it was how he saw her, an admission that still held the power to send her into speechless astonishment. She figured if anything she was the musical equivalent of 'Chopsticks', yet he made her sound like she was someone worth knowing. And he always played with effortless ease, his restless, brilliant mind present in all the turns of phrase and progression of chords. Most important however was the love shining from every note. She took the knowledge to her heart, to ponder and hold close over the undoubtedly difficult days to come. Whatever happened, they at least had this between them, a bond neither wanted to break.

At last the piece ended. Greg let his hands rest on the keys for a moment, then withdrew.

"Does it have a name?" Roz asked.

"Yes," he said finally. There was a reticence in his manner that told her how much the title meant to him, if he'd keep it secret even from her. She felt her heart swell. It was rare for him to show his vulnerable side, but when he did she couldn't help but love him all the more.

"It's beautiful," she said as she always did when he played it for her, only now there was a catch in her words. "Thank you, _amante_."

He said nothing. Instead he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, placed a kiss on the palm. When he leaned in and claimed her lips she responded, her right hand rising to touch his face. After the kiss ended she stroked his forehead with her fingers, traced the thick brows, the deep lines between them, the straight nose and long upper lip below it, the outline of his mouth, the soft dent under his bottom lip. He watched her, his face close to hers. He was trembling; his eyes were very blue, fear and tenderness there in equal measure.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered. Roz brushed her lips over his, slow and light.

"I understand that now," she said, and offered him a slight smile. He took another kiss, lengthy and lingering. She understood the question in it. When it was done she nodded, and felt his lips curve just a bit.

They walked to the bedroom hand in hand, shy as new lovers. In the soft darkness they undressed each other, touching, exploring. Roz closed her eyes and shivered when Greg cupped her breasts in his hands. She slipped her arms around him, delighting as always in his lean strength. Too lean, she realized; he'd lost weight. Her hands caressed his hips, felt the bones press against his skin. "_Greg,_" she said, dismayed.

"Stop worrying." His voice was a soft growl. "I'm skinny anyway, you know that."

"I'm sorry," she said, distressed by her discovery. "I'm so sorry."

He gave an impatient sigh. "You talk too much," he said, and she couldn't stop a little snort of amusement. "That's better." He kissed her, a lengthy, sweet salute that had her tingling all the way to her toes.

The next thing she knew they lay together on their big bed, and his callused fingers were sliding through the curls at the join of her thighs. She gave a little gasp and held on as he began to work her, his mouth warm on the pulse point just below the hinge of her jaw. By degrees he brought her to the edge, slow and sure. When he eased her open and moved to enter her she lifted her hips; he filled her with a gentleness that made tears come to her eyes.

"You're crying again," he said in exasperation, but his gaze was searching, worried. She smiled up at him.

"It's all right," she said, and clasped her hands around his neck, moving with him.

It was the closest they'd ever come to making music together; she would never tell him, knowing she'd call down a mockery he wouldn't be able to resist, but for all that it was still true. Afterward they lay side by side, holding each other close. Roz put her cheek to Greg's chest, felt the steady thump of his heart. He made a contented noise, a sort of rumble, and covered her abdomen with his hand.

"_Why?_" he asked after a time. Roz sighed softly.

"I don't know," she said, determined to be honest. "I know this is not a baby . . . it's probably barely big enough to be seen."

"You're in clinical week eight, most likely. There's a lot going on now," he said, almost to himself. "Heart and lungs descend into the thorax . . . first parasympathetic ganglia are identifiable. Nerves are entering the limb buds." He nuzzled her temple. "If you know . . ."

"I can't shake the knowledge that it's something we created, whether we meant to or not," she said, and hesitated. "This is gonna sound so stupid . . ."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said. "Continue."

"Okay." She bit her lip, then went on. "Every . . . every atom of you is dear to me . . ." She stopped when he groaned. "I _told_ you it was stupid," she said. "You want to let me finish?"

He didn't say anything, but his arms tightened around her a little. She took that as some kind of encouragement. "I can't help but love that part of you that's growing inside me. I've tried not to, I've done my best to force myself to be objective and s-see things—" She stopped, then went on. "I'm sorry, _amante_. I'm so sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," he said harshly. His fingers stroked her hair. "How can . . . you can't mean _everything_," he said, and the scorn mixed with utter bewilderment in his words broke her heart.

"But I do," she said simply, because it was the truth. He didn't reply. "Yeah, you make me angry and sometimes you hurt me, but that doesn't mean I stop loving you." She traced a slow circle on his breast. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

"Doesn't say much for your taste in companionship," he said after a moment. Roz sat up a little.

"Stop putting yourself down," she said, her voice shaking with the force of her feelings. Greg looked surprised.

"I just—"

"_No!_" She put her hand to his face, made him look at her. "You're my best friend as well as my lover. Accept it or walk away."

He stared at her. After a moment his lips twitched. "Don't do things by halves, do you."

She lay back down and slipped her arm around his waist. "That's right, so don't make me tell you again, _buffone_." She felt him shake with silent amusement and gave him a light smack. "I mean it!"

"Spousal abuse, _nice_. So much for friendship," he said, chuckling. She silenced him with a kiss. By the time it ended they were relaxed once more, breaths mingling in the quiet room.

"You know this won't change my mind," he said after a time. Roz nodded.

"Yes, I know."

"What will you do?"

"Stay with you. I love you," she said. He sighed, a long slow release of breath.

"That all you got, electrician chick?"

"For right now," she said. Greg touched his lips to her hair.

"Yeah, well," he said at last. "If that's what you can manage for right now . . . okay." He kissed her. "Gonna make dinner?" Roz couldn't help but smile.

"Always thinking of your stomach," she said, but she was glad he was hungry. If she couldn't do anything else, she could get him to eat a good meal. Her neglect shamed her; whether he thought it was important or not, to some extent he was in her care and she'd let him down.

She reheated some meatloaf and mashed potatoes in the oven to warm the kitchen, and steamed the last of the fresh green beans with basil and garlic while the gravy heated through; they ate at the harvest table, and when she claimed Greg's hand he didn't object, though of course he rolled his eyes and teased her about her insufferable sentimentality until she threatened to stuff the beans up his nose. Dessert was cheesecake marbled with chocolate, a treat Greg had brought home for her because she was beginning to crave dairy. They went back for seconds and ended up on the couch in front of the tv, pleasantly stuffed.

"Trying to fatten me up," Greg said after a while. Roz nodded. "Good luck. All you'll do is put love handles on my hips."

"Fine by me," she said. "I like having something to hang onto," and delighted in his chuckle as he brought her close.

They went to bed early, and Hellboy joined them. He was happy to curl up atop Roz's bathrobe, his tail tucked neatly over his nose. When Roz climbed in Greg eased the covers over them, then put his arm around her and drew her back against him.

"Go to sleep. I'll be here in the morning," he said, so softly she barely heard him.

She reached up to touch his cheek. "Me too," she murmured, and drifted off in his embrace, her worry settled for the time being.

She woke in the early hours to find herself alone. Fear gripped her, but only for a moment. From the living room came the sound of the piano, soft but unmistakable. Roz lay in the dark, reassured. After a few moments she recognized the melody. It was the piece he'd composed for her, but now it sounded different. Of course she was no musician, but to her untrained ears there was a melancholy in the notes now, a hint of sadness, all the more powerful for its subtlety. A lump rose in her throat. Here was what he couldn't bring himself to say to her, what lay under the harsh adherence to the promise they'd made before their marriage. How much pain was he hiding? The very idea of him unable to say anything stabbed at her. _What are we going to do? _she thought, and closed her eyes on tears. _This can't go on . . . something has to change, or we'll never make it._ Despite her brave words earlier, she knew whatever the decision finally turned out to be, it would change everything forever between them, and either he or she would end up leaving. _Don't let it be me,_ she thought. _I don't want to be another woman who walks away . . . please, not me. But don't let it be him who leaves first, either__._ She fell asleep with the hopeless plea echoing in her head, pitiless and inescapable.

[H]

When Greg comes in during the small hours he finds his wife asleep. In the soft light of the little nightstand lamp she's left on for him, the tracks of tears are plain on her cheeks. Slowly he sits beside her, puts his fingers to her face, touches his thumb gently to her bottom lip, where she's worried it until the skin's chapped and broken. _We can't go on like this,_ he thinks, and understands by acknowledging that truth, now they must choose a path with all the attendant consequences, whatever they may be.

On a sigh he turns off the light, brings his legs up and gets under the covers, slips in next to Roz, puts his arm around her and settles in. He lets his hand drift to her belly, his fingers playing the melody of her _ballade_ with tender care on the soft skin of her abdomen, where new life grows and changes. For one moment he allows himself to imagine a child—a little girl, all big green eyes and dark hair like her mother, with her sweet, brilliant smile, sitting at a piano while he teaches her to find middle C—

He pushes the image away because it's wrong, it's a dangerous indulgence; he knows how things have to be. But he continues to play the song until the music in his head carries him away into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

'_Love Ballade', Oscar Peterson_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. It would really make my day :)_**


	8. Chapter 8

**_(Many thanks to those who have favorited and reviewed my story, it's very much appreciated! You're the best readers in fandom and your support is pure gold. -B)_**

_October 24th_

_2:30 p.m.._

"So what do you have for me, people? Time's a-wastin'."

Chase opened the file but said nothing. He pretended to scan it while waiting for a reaction from someone else.

"The last patient just left half an hour ago," Singh pointed out. House nodded.

"That means we've got two empty beds to fill. So who's gonna fill 'em?"

Rob glanced at Chandler, who flipped through the pages of her file. "Fifty year old male presents with a rash—"

"That's a no-brainer," House said. He pushed the file away. "STD."

"—that starts as red papules from two to fifteen millimeters in diameter. Some have healed, leaving scars with white centers." She looked at House. Her dark eyes glinted. "Not an STD."

"Prove it." He sat back and put his feet on the table, crossed his ankles.

"Weakness, shortness of breath, chest pains." Chandler lifted a page. "Tests indicate no history of cardiac problems until about six months ago."

"When the STD was contracted. This guy's been cheating on his wife."

"He's gay," Rob said, secretly amused. House shrugged.

"Partner then, the difference is nothing but mechanics." He turned his gaze to Chandler. "You really _care_ about this patient."

Chandler stacked her files and avoided House's penetrating stare. "He needs our help."

"Choose someone else."

She thumped the flat of her hand down atop the files. "You're just saying that because—"

"—I want you to choose someone else," House said loudly. Chandler glared at him.

"No."

"Give me a good reason why we should treat him, beyond 'he's so needy'."

"Because it's not an STD. He's been tested for them and everything came up negative. You're wrong," Chandler said. "I _can_ prove it."

House observed her, his blue eyes intent. "Okay," he said after a few moments. His tone was mild. Chandler looked surprised, but only for a moment.

"Okay," she said, and opened the file again. "Okay then. The patient's history is pretty simple."

Rob let his thoughts drift while she spoke. He'd already gone over the history; while it was indeed simple, it was deceptively so. Still, they'd tease out the secrets and complications over time, of course.

"I'd offer a penny for your thoughts," House was saying, "but they're probably not even worth minting the coin."

"I'm listening," Rob said.

"You're daydreaming," House said. He picked up a paper clip, began to flip it between thumb and forefinger. "If you're bored, there are always clinic hours to keep you occupied."

"Okay, thanks." Rob got up, took files in hand, saluted House and sauntered out of the room. He caught a glimpse of Chandler's face as he left. Her astonishment amused him. House hadn't been surprised, though. He'd given Rob a slight nod, a tacit acknowledgment and permission as well.

The medical center was quiet. Doctor Wirth greeted him, the inevitable cup of coffee in hand. "Extra hours," she said with a slight smile. "Fine by me. Just make sure you write 'em down in the log."

He signed in, grabbed some coffee and a few doughnut holes from the communal box in the break room, stuffed a dollar in the donation jar, and wandered out to the nurses station. Dot Meyer sat at the computer, going over charts. "Good morning," she said, smiling. She was used to his unexpected appearances; even better, she liked him enough to put up with the randomness of his hours. "Nothing yet, but I'm sure we'll see a few customers turn up. There's some kind of stomach bug going around, everyone's having a tough time with it."

Rob rolled his eyes. "No such thing as a 'stomach bug', he said. Dot chuckled.

"Well, you and I both know that but you can't convince the general public." She tapped a few keys. "I ordered some extra supplies. There's plenty of Pepto and Immodium as well as Pedialyte. IVs are stocked up too in case we have any problems with dehydration."

"Good to know," Rob said. "Anything interesting come in overnight?"

"Just a little boy who ate an entire bag of candy corn. It came back up, though it took him a while."

"Yikes. That must have been fun." Rob sipped his coffee. "I'll be in bay two."

"Okey-doke." Dot turned back to her charts and he headed off to get settled in.

He thought about the ddx while he arranged things to his liking in the bay. Something wasn't right with House. He was on edge, anxious. Yes, he enjoyed baiting Chandler—and Rob knew all too well from his own experience how tenacious their boss could be about using his favorite teaching method—but there was an anger in his words that hadn't been evident for a long time. Well, undoubtedly they'd find out what was going on sooner or later.

On that thought he was approached by one of the nurses, a youngish woman several pounds too heavy for her height. At least one of those pounds consisted of eye makeup. "Doctor Chase," she said, and offered him what she thought was a charming smile.

"Dawkins," he said with some caution. He'd learned his lesson the hard way about being anything more than polite with this one. Friendliness was endlessly mistaken for interest.

"My first name's Frieda," she said, as she always did. Her smile became a little strained. "I was wondering . . . do you have a date for the Halloween dance?"

Rob aimed a pointed look at the ring on her left hand. "I think you do," he said. Dawkins rolled her eyes.

"We're separated," she said, and dismissed her husband without hesitation. "So, you want to go with me?"

"Um," Rob hedged, and almost sighed out loud with relief when Dot showed up behind Dawkins.

"Get busy, Frieda. Your shift's not done yet," she said with an impressive chill in her voice. "There's plenty of inventory left to check in the supply closet if you need something to do."

Dawkins gave Rob a lingering look, then flounced off without acknowledging Dot. Once she was out of earshot he said "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Dot said with a knowing smile. "She'll be gone in half an hour. Then you'll have Heather to deal with."

It was quiet after she left. Rob picked up the file, opened it, set it aside. Despite his rejection of Dawkins's dubious charms, he would have welcomed someone going with him to the dance. Since he'd moved here, since Thirteen had decided to go to Will Reynard, he'd been alone. It wasn't the first time he'd been without lovers or at least a girfriend; he didn't hate it, but he often missed a warm body next to his, someone to take an interest in his day and he in hers; good sex, a good sense of humor, good cooking . . . Cameron had been a mistake on his part, he knew that now. He didn't blame her for what happened; he'd ruined everything with his secrecy and lies, knowing full well she'd never be able to live with what he'd done. Maybe now he was paying the price for his crime, a price he'd pay for the rest of his life. Maybe it would poison any relationship he tried to sustain past a night or two.

"Yeah, well," he said aloud, and returned to the file. Might as well make himself useful. He didn't want House picking on him for being lazy. Well, that would happen anyway but at least he'd have some ammunition to refute his boss's assertions.

[H]

Roz climbed out of the truck and stretched. Her stomach gurgled and she rubbed it, wishing she hadn't eaten breakfast. Dinner hadn't sat well with her the night before, and she'd gotten up a couple of times to deal with loose stools and cramps. Greg had examined and then cared for her—not without his usual sarcasm, twitting her for eating pasta and garlic on an upset stomach, but she'd expected that. He'd given her some Kaopectate and a glass of vitamin water, held her while she went back to sleep . . . On a sigh Roz grabbed her toolbox and headed toward the house.

"We'd like two outlets here, and another in the utility room." The house owner pointed at the plan Roz had unfolded on the table.

"You'll need to upgrade your service," she said, and winced as acid came up in her throat.

"Are you okay?" the owner asked.

She ended up using the bathroom when breakfast made a return visit the hard way, but once she'd rinsed out her mouth and washed her face she felt a little better. "Sorry," she muttered to the owner. "Shouldn't have eaten breakfast."

"That's rough," the owner said. "Listen, if you're not up for this—"

"No, it's fine. Let me take a look, might as well do it while I'm here."

She went through the room with battered notebook in hand. It was hard to concentrate because she felt queasy and irritable, but she was determined to keep going.

"Like I said, you'll need an upgrade," she said when she was finished. "I can give you an estimate if you want to shop around for a good price."

"No need, the job's yours if you want it." The owner smiled at her." You're the best electrician in the area. Let me know when you can start."

She headed off to the next job, feeling minimally better even with the knot in her insides.

[H]

Greg switches on the mp3 player and settles back in his chair, letting the music fill him; soft, cool, blue. He closes his eyes, enjoying this rare moment of relaxation. Nothing mundane touches him here . . .

"Mail's in," McMurphy says from the doorway. He knows where she is without having to look because she always stands there to announce the arrival of the Postal Service's reason for existence.

"You are disturbing my hour of meditation," he says in his best solemn tone.

"More like a day of goofing off, as usual." He hears her approach, the soft _whump!_ of mail being dumped on the desk." JAMA wants you as their keynote speaker in Boston next year."

"People, hell, ice water," he says.

"Boston's not that far," she points out. "It's an easy gig, and good money. And you can say what you like. Even if they give you a topic, you can blow them off and have a great time tweaking everyone's nose."

He opens his eyes and looks at her. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says. McMurphy gives an insouciant little shrug, and suddenly he sees her as she was fifty years ago, before time and life took their toll.

"'He's a rebel and he'll never ever be any good,'" she sings, and gives him that snarky smile that secretly cracks him up. "'He's a rebel 'cause he never ever does what he should . . .'" She saunters off, hips swinging. "'Just because he doesn't do what everybody else does/that's no reason why I can't give him all my love . . .'"

"Prove it!" he yells after her, and she laughs. So he finds the song on YouTube and plays it, just to hear McMurphy singing along in the kitchen.

He's left alone after that. It's a quiet morning; Chase is off doing clinic hours, Chandler and Singh are running tests and attempting to get more of a history out of the patient. McMurphy's cooking the books and dealing with insurance companies and networks. Faust will be in later, she's got some idiotic meeting with her girl's teachers . . . The thought takes him where he doesn't want to go: children.

_Roz wants to stay pregnant. _That feeling haunts him; he can't shake it. She keeps telling him she'll think about ending the pregnancy, but she hasn't made any arrangements or appointments as far as he knows. How the hell is he supposed to trust her when she won't keep her word? Even as he thinks it he knows he's not being fair. Her anguish is so strong it's palpable. A part of him knows the very last thing she would do is lie to him or strong him along. And yet he can't bring himself to believe she'll honor her word; the lure of family is too tempting.

_If she does have a baby, what will I do? _That thought frightens him more than any of the others. He has no idea how to handle it so he keeps pushing it away, only to have it return like a dog with a ball, insisting on some interminable game of fetch. Should he leave? The idea is repulsive. But how can he stay? He'd be an unwilling father. That combined with his natural unsuitability would create a disaster he can't even contemplate.

"You're thinkin' deep thoughts if that frown is anything to go by."

Sarah stands in the doorway. She looks serious, but her sea-green eyes hold a steady compassion he both welcomes and resents. She comes forward and puts something on his desk—a muffin wrapped in a paper napkin. "I'm gonna make a cup of tea," she says. "You want some coffee?"

She leaves without waiting for him to reply, taking his mug with her. By the time she comes back the muffin is gone except for a couple of crumbs. Sarah put his mug in front of him along with another muffin, then sits with her cup of tea. Greg picks up the muffin and takes a bite. It's as good as the first: spicy, pumpkin-y, with just a bit of yogurt to add a nice tangy edge to the sweetness.

"You're crap at baking," he says. Sarah sips her tea.

"So I see," she says, dry but amused. "Sorry to torture you with my sad, sad skills."

"Bring it on," he says, and takes a huge bite of muffin, so big his jaw hinges crack with it.

"You're gonna kill yourself one of these days, eating like that," Sarah says. "How is it?"

He chews and swallows, belches, sips his coffee. "I think the more important question is 'what the hell do you want?'"

"Just thought I'd stop by," Sarah says quietly. The genuine concern warms him, but of course he can't let her know that.

"Beware redheads bearing gifts," he says, and puts down his mug. "What you're really here for is information."

"I'd like to know how things are going, yeah," Sarah says without hesitation. "You know I'm concerned about the situation you and Roz are in."

There's nothing he can say that he hasn't said already, so he just eats another chunk of muffin.

"Yes, I understand you've stated how you see things. I'm _not_ trying to change your mind," Sarah says. "I just want to know how it's going."

"Swimmingly." He licks his fingers. "Next topic."

Sarah eyes him over the top of her mug. "Okay," she says mildly. "Jason and Mandy got an A on their weather station project."

Greg gives a loud stage yawn. "I know you baked more than two of those artery-cloggers," he says.

"If you want another dozen or so they're on the table in the break room." She holds her mug with both hands.

"Yeah . . ." He draws the word out. "I leave, you go through my computer."

"Just because you'd do that doesn't mean I would," she says. "Besides, if you eat any more you'll explode."

"Just because you'd do that," he mocks, and she chuckles. "Seriously, we're fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Convince me." Her gaze is steady on his. He looks away.

"We have a marriage counselor for this," he says. "You're the one who foisted her off on us, let her do her job."

"For all intents and purposes, I'm your mom," Sarah says. "I'm not asking in the capacity of an analyst right now, I'm asking because you're both dear to me. The fact that you're resisting the question so thoroughly tells me something, but not everything."

"Nice attempt to charm me into crying on your shoulder," he says.

"Interesting phrase to use," she says. To his surprise she gets to her feet. "Okay. If you want to talk, you know where to find me."

After she leaves to help McMurphy with some mundane chore he sits there for a while, listening to the music, his thoughts at sixes and sevens.

[H]

Roz finished the last note, tucked the book in her pocket and stretched, then started up the truck. She had time to spend lunch with Greg, even to stop by Poppi's to pick up something special.

She found her grandfather in the back, stirring a pot of sauce. "Hey _'bina_," he said, and kissed her cheek, then studied her. "You look pale."

"Tummy rumbles," she said. Poppi clucked.

"And you're working? Go home, rest. Put your feet up."

"I will," Roz said. She felt guilty that she hadn't told him about the pregnancy, but she'd already broken her promise once with Jason. Besides, she already knew what Poppi would say about termination. She dreaded having to tell him, knowing he would be terribly hurt. "Mind if I take a sandwich and some soup?"

"Of course, you don't have to ask. Take what you want. Make sure you take soup for yourself, some of that_ stracciatella_. I made it just this morning. It'll put color in your cheeks."

"_Grazie_, Poppi." Roz took a container of the chicken soup as directed and made Greg a roast beef sandwich, tucked a ten in the tip jar and headed to the clinic.

[H]

It's right on the dot of noon when Roz shows up. She's a little pale but otherwise much the same. She puts an outsized sandwich, a bag of chips and a Coke on his desk, takes the seat Sarah sat in a few hours previous.

"You're not eating?" he says, more sharply than he'd intended.

"Still having trouble," she says. "My stomach hurts."

He gives her a quick once-over, but she looks okay—and then she winces.

"What?" he says, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"Just a cramp," she says. She sounds a little winded. For answer he abandons the sandwich, gets up and comes around the desk. "I'm _all right_," she says, coming close to snapping at him—a rare enough occurrence to tell him she is most definitely not all right.

"McMurphy!" he bellows.

"Oh, come on," Roz groans, but when the older woman shows up she falls silent.

"Room two," Greg says. "Warm up the stethoscope and get Singh." Without a word McMurphy heads off.

"It's just a stomach bug," Roz says, but now she looks worried.

Singh shows up in two minutes. "I understand you're a little under the weather," he says, and Greg has to admire his bedside manner. Even Wilson would envy his calm and genuine concern. "How are you feeling?"

He leads Roz into the exam room and shuts the door firmly in Greg's face when he starts to follow them. Greg catches McMurphy's smirk just as they disappear from sight, but there's a hint of reassurance in her gaze as well.

Half an hour later Singh finally emerges. "Come on in," he says. Roz is sitting on the side of the bed with McMurphy standing next to her, hand on her shoulder.

"Aside from the fact that your wife is pregnant, she's just dealing with a bit of gastro-intestinal distress," Singh says dryly. "I'm presuming you don't want the former to be public knowledge, since neither of you has said anything about it."

"Yes," Roz says. She shoots Greg a look before she glances away, and he knows it's her way of apologizing to him yet again for the situation they're in.

"Okay. No one here will say anything to anyone else." Singh is matter-of-fact and quiet; Greg knows he means what he says. "I've prescribed a few days of bed rest, clear liquids, no caffeine. Stay off your feet and watch tv or read."

"Thanks, I will," Greg says, and goes out the door. "Taxi's leaving in five minutes!" he says over his shoulder.

The fact that Roz doesn't protest his driving her home tells him all he needs to know about how ill she really feels. By the time she's tucked up on the couch—she refused the bed-she's clearly exhausted, every vestige of color gone from her face. It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. He watches her, worry battling with annoyance at her stubbornness.

Eventually Hellboy comes in. He sniffs at Roz's hand, then jumps up beside her. With great delicacy he settles in, snuggled against her belly. With a sigh Greg rises, takes the soft throw from the back of the couch and drapes it over the sleeping woman, then goes into his study to try to lose himself in work.

He's an hour into proceedings with symptoms chasing each other in his head like squirrels around a tree trunk when he hears Roz get up and go into the kitchen. He follows suit to find her getting a glass of vitamin water from the fridge. "How are the cramps?" he asks.

"Better," she says without looking at him.

"What's wrong?" The words slip out before he can stop them. Roz's fingers tighten on the glass.

"I haven't told Poppi about the pregnancy," she says after a moment. There's so much unvoiced pain in her words Greg flinches. "I can't tell him. Besides my promise, he's . . . he was brought up in the old way, he won't understand about termination—" She comes to a halt. "Either way I can't say anything."

The enormity of her anguish stabs at him; suddenly he can't face it, any of it, even though he was the one who told her to talk to him. He turns and retreats to his study. But he can't bring himself to close the door, it feels too final. He sits at his desk, stares at the journal he's been combing through for the last two hours in a fruitless pursuit of knowledge. A minute or so later Roz appears. She doesn't stop in the doorway though; she comes straight to him. She sits on his good leg, puts her arms around him and buries her face in the join of his neck and shoulder; she doesn't say anything, just holds him. After a few moments he brings his arms up around her, feels her trembling.

"If you want to tell him . . ." he says finally, not knowing what to say.

"No . . . no." Roz shudders. "I . . . I have to do this, don't I? I have to just . . . do it."

There's nothing he can say that won't hurt her more, so he doesn't speak again. They cling to each other in the quiet, alone and together at the same time.

Long after she goes to bed he turns to the computer and clicks on iTunes, finds the song he's looking for, and listens to it playing softly in the silent room.

_If they don't like him that way,_

_They won't like me after today_

_And I'll be standing right by his side when they say_

_He's a rebel and he'll never ever be any good_

_He's a rebel 'cause he never ever does what he should_

_But just because he doesn't do what everybody else does,_

_That's no reason why we can't share a love_

_He's always good to me_

_Good to him, I try to be_

_'Cause he's not a rebel, no no no_

_He's not a rebel, no no no, to me . . ._

'_He's A Rebel', the Crystals_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review-they're a fic writer's only paycheck. :)_**


	9. Chapter 9

_October 27th_

_7 p.m._

It's a chill, blustery evening. Greg looks out over the contents of the barn as he settles in behind the keyboard and takes a quick swallow of beer. The place is much as always, full of bits and pieces—a riding lawn mower along with two push types, the brush hog, a tractor he and Gene now apparently own together, and various implements. The woodstove is well-stocked due to the efforts of the kid, apparently fulfilling one of his chores. It's been burning logs for several hours now, so it's warm and comfortable in the old building, at least in the vicinity of the stove. The air smells of smoke and pine, motor oil and old dust, familiar and oddly calming; it's a good setting for the practice, as always.

Goldman finishes tuning and gives Greg an inquiring look. "Ready?" he says quietly, and glances at Singh, who nods and salutes them with a stick. Jay finishes tuning and sits forward on his chair.

"Let's do it," he says with a little smile that's so much like Roz's Greg has to look away. To hide his reaction he counts them off and they launch into the opening number of this year's Halloween dance, 'Spooky'. Jay is the designated singer for the opener. He sounds good, relaxed and calm.

Somewhere in the middle of the second verse Greg catches a glimpse of Roz slipping through the door. She takes off her coat and hangs it up on the rack with everyone else's, then moves behind them to take a seat on the old bed to the left of him. She offers him a slight smile. She's still rather pale, with faint smudges under her eyes; her slender frame is enveloped in one of his long-sleeved henley tee shirts and a pair of sweat pants—stuff she typically wears at home but not out. She finally slept without waking every half hour last night, and didn't get up until almost noon; he'd had time to bring home breakfast, consisting of some rolled oats and whole milk for Roz and doughnuts for him. He'd even cooked the oats himself . . . He glances at her but she's piling pillows so she can relax and listen to them play. Her movements are slow, an indication she's still not up to her normal levels of energy. He looks over toward Singh, who raises his brows slightly and tips his head just a bit—he'll talk to Roz after everyone else is gone at the end of practice.

They start the next song, the obligatory 'Monster Mash', with Singh given the enjoyable task of re-creating the Bobby Pickett/Boris Karloff voiceover. Jason's been recruited to do the sound effects with a chain brought in from Jay's garage, accompanied by a bubble pipe. He performs on cue flawlessly and gets an ovation from Roz. Flushed and embarrassed, he retreats into the shadows, but not before Greg sees a huge grin on his face. The kid's a natural ham under all that adolescent shyness. When he's got some chops on the sax, he'll get a solo eventually too. It's a good incentive to keep him practicing through the first year of boring scales and mastery of basic technique.

The next song is 'Superstition', a chart they all like because they can legitimately funk it up and have a good time indulging themselves with an extended version. This one is guaranteed to get almost everyone out on the floor; the place will be jivin'. Jay's letting himself go with a walking bass line that's so live it should have a name, Goldman's got the smoothest vibe in existence going on vocals, and Singh's having a blast letting himself loose. Greg's keeping the keyboard minimal, but it's fine by him; he likes to sit back and see the others shine, as much for the reflected glory as the sheer pleasure of it all. They let it unreel for a good ten minutes, to Jason and Roz's enthusiastic applause at the end.

"Yeah," Goldman says when they finish. He reaches down for his beer, takes a quick slug, clears his throat, has another swallow. "They'll love it."

"Motown here we come," Singh says with a grin.

They start the next song with Jay's wolf howl and Goldman's rhythm guitar; 'Little Red Riding Hood' will be another big favorite. Undoubtedly couples will start pairing up, to sway and cop feels as Goldman and Singh sing the harmony vocals to Jay's lead while Greg plays the tambourine.

"Boy, I could tell stories about that song," Goldman says when they're done. Singh glances at Jason, who is listening with all the avidity of a young boy who thinks he's ready to hear the mysteries. Goldman gives Singh a keen look, then a smile. "Hey, the kid's gonna hear this kinda thing anyway. Might as well be with us. Sarah understands we're guys. She'll make sure he gets plenty of propaganda to counter our bad influence." He leans back. "There was this one babe in high school—"

"Wasn't there always," Greg says, thinking of his own first time and trying not to wince.

"Well yeah, but this chick—talk about a wolf in sheep's clothing. She was two-timing every guy on the football team and you know, she actually pulled it off." There's a reluctant note of admiration in Goldman's tone. "Tough to do in a small-town school, but she managed it. Ended up marryin' some banker and divorced him, then took off for California. I think she went through a bunch of actors out there until someone finally broke her cold little cinder of a heart or did her in or something."

"Nice," Roz says dryly, and gets a laugh from all of them.

"I take it you dated this femme fatale?" Singh wants to know. Goldman lifts his brows in mock surprise.

"Hell yeah. She was hot."

"Opportunist," Greg can't resist saying. Goldman takes a big swallow of beer and belches.

"Yup," he says with no little satisfaction.

The next song up is the Clovers and 'Love Potion Number 9', the '59 version right off the _American Graffiti_ soundtrack. They've been working on the harmony vocals for weeks now; Jay gets the bass voice-line at the end of the chorus, and he sings it with the perfect combination of creepiness and solemn intent, making Jason crack up. This is another favorite with the audience—undoubtedly they'll be asked to play it twice again this year. They've got a solid groove on this one. They run through it again just to make sure, and it sounds as good the second time as the first, a decent entry in their repertoire.

"You get some proficiency on that sax, you can play this one with us someday," Goldman says to Jason, who brightens like a light bulb.

"_Sick_," he says with evident delight.

"Chronic," Goldman says, smiling. Greg can see this is some kind of familiar, secret-code exchange between the two of them. For just a moment he wonders what it would be like to have that kind of relationship with a dad. He remembers moments when he was very small, isolated incidents where John House actually seemed to like him . . . they'd stopped by the time he was eight, and able to fully articulate his own viewpoint. John never had much tolerance for anyone else's opinion, especially a boy who wasn't even his own spawn.

They move on to King Harvest's 'Dancin' in the Moonlight', another crowd favorite. Greg switches the keyboard to the electric piano setting and starts them off; he's got lead vocal on this one, though he knows he doesn't do it justice. No one objects though, so it's all good.

The last song in the set is 'Ghostbusters', another chart with the chance for an extended middle section; that'll get everyone out on the floor. Jason gets the tag line 'I ain't fraida no ghosts', as well as joining in the shout the band gives at the end of each verse and chorus. He's having the time of his life, bopping like a spastic frog. Roz even joins him, moving her slim hips just a little as Jason dances all around her.

They take a break after that, grab fresh brews from the cube fridge and indulge in their favorite pastime besides playing—razzing each other. Greg sits back with a cold beer and listens to the others, smiling at the occasional zinger and resultant laughter. He watches the kid soaking up all this male atmosphere and knows it's good for him—a bit misogynistic at times to be sure, but there's respect too. Jason's smart enough to figure some of it out for himself, at least. And he's not shy about asking questions, a trait which will stand him in good stead, though it won't make for an easy life.

The first song in the second set is a slow one—'Bewitched'. None of them are good enough to do a Sinatra imitation so it's instrumental only. They swing it wide, simple and silky-soft, guaranteed to make couples happy. When it's done Greg takes them right into the opening organ riff for 'That's Life', just for the hell of it. The band is good enough by now to pick it up within two measures. Goldman grabs the vocal. With a smile he sings,

_I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet _

_a pawn and a king _

_I've been up and down and over and out _

_but I know one thing _

_each time I find myself flat on my face _

_I pick myself up and get back in the race _

_that's life, I can't deny it _

_I thought of quitting _

_but my heart just won't buy it _

'_cause if I didn't think it was worth a try _

_I'd have to roll myself up in a big ball and die _

As they finish Jason puts his hand on Greg's shoulder. "Doctor House," he says. "Something's wrong with Roz." His voice is shaking. Greg turns and sees Roz sitting on the side of the bed. Her shoulders are hunched and her arms are folded tight over her belly.

Within five seconds every doctor in the barn is at her side. Goldman already has his phone out to dial 911. Greg sees spots of bright blood on the quilt and feels shock hit home, slowing down time. He fights to keep his mind focused, rational. "Take the kid home," he says to Jay. "Then meet us at the medical center." Jay doesn't argue, though it's plain he wants to. He simply does as Greg says, leading Jason away with his arm around the boy's shoulder as they bundle Roz in the quilt. Goldman's already gone, sprinting out the door to the house. He comes back with the minivan in record time. They ease her into the back seat and head to the center. Roz doesn't make a sound the entire way until they get to the parking lot. She's holding Greg's hand, and suddenly she squeezes hard. "Oh _no_," she whispers, her voice choked with pain and tears, and he can't bear it. He knows what they'll find when they take her out of the quilt.

"Close your eyes," he says softly, "we're there now."

The emergency team is ready for her. She's hustled away to a bay, the curtains drawn. Singh goes in. Before he does he pauses by Greg. "I'll let you know what's going on as soon as possible," he says quietly. Greg doesn't reply; there's nothing to say. Instead he moves slowly to the waiting area and takes a seat. Jay's there, hands knotted together between his knees as he stares at the floor.

"She never said she was pregnant," he says in bewilderment, and Greg knows what lies ahead mainly for Roz—the news will spread through the village like wildfire.

"Call your grandfather," he mutters, and can't think of what else to say. He recalls the time Roz came in with the injury to her arm, how he'd gone into his office and worked on downing a bottle of bourbon. He wishes he could do that now, but there's no point—drunk, he'd been of no use to her or even himself, and that would be true this time out too. He can't help it though, he needs some kind of distance between him and this disaster, even if it's only physical.

He ends up in the lounge, staring at the tv as he flips through channels, one after the other. Finally he settles on a movie—doesn't know what it is, doesn't care. He lets the noise and images wash over him, but they still can't keep him from thinking about what's happening.

Eventually he discovers Goldman is sitting next to him. The other man says nothing; his presence is reassuring, even if Greg doesn't want to admit it. He doesn't offer platitudes or the usual comforting remarks, and for that alone Greg is grateful beyond belief.

The movie ends and another begins. About twenty minutes in someone enters the lounge—one of the nurses. She has a clipboard with forms. Greg closes his eyes for a moment.

"What am I signing for?" he asks before she can say anything.

"D and C," she says quietly. Everyone in the room knows what that means. No one says anything about their knowledge. Greg signs the forms. The nurse leaves.

"Once Sarah talks with Jason and gets him settled, she'll call you," Goldman says after a while. Greg shudders inside. He both wants to talk to her, and fears what she'll make him face.

"She should talk to my wife," he says harshly. "She's the one who lost the pregnancy."

"So did you," Goldman says simply. "Whether you wanted it or not, it was your child as well."

It's the truth he's been pushing away for weeks. Now he has to face it and accept the unbearable loss of something he never wanted in the first place. He can't sit still, so he gets up and moves to the window, stares out at the darkness. Wind blows hard through the last of the leaves on the trees, and cold radiates from the glass. It's the last breath of the old year's life. Everything is decaying, subsumed by the icy blackness as cells break down and become nothing more than components.

"We're all dying," he says, more to himself than to Goldman.

"It's how things are." The other man sounds sad, but there's an acceptance that jabs at Greg like a sharp stick.

"You don't just accept it because 'that's how things are'. That's not what I meant," he snaps, and sees Singh come into the lounge through the dim reflection on the windowpane. He doesn't turn, though.

"She's all right," he says, and Greg's gut unclenches just a little. "She lost a fair amount of blood, but we're transfusing her now." He sounds matter-of-fact without being cold or clinical. "Chase is in surgery with her at the moment, of course. When she's in Post-op I'll let you know."

After he leaves Goldman says quietly, "She'll want you there."

"I'm not so sure."

"Let her make the choice."

It's about two hours past that remark when Singh sticks his head into the room. "She's awake."

Greg watches as Goldman gets up, stretches a little. He doesn't move from the chair. The other man gives him a long, considering look. Then he just leaves the room without a word. There's no sense of accusation or condemnation, but Greg hunches his shoulders and stares at the tv. Despite Goldman's undoubted wisdom, Greg knows he's just made a decision that will cause pain and heartache and eventually, anger and disgust. But it's the only one he can make at the moment. To move one step closer to the room where his wife lies empty and in pain is impossible.

So he watches the movie without seeing it, and feels the weight of the dying year as it bears down on him, silent, inexorable, and cold.

'_Spooky', Classics IV_

'_Monster Mash', Bobby Pickett_

'_Superstition', Stevie Wonder_

'_Little Red Riding Hood', Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs_

'_Love Potion #9', the Clovers_

'_Dancin' in the Moonlight', King Harvest_

'_Ghostbusters', Ray Parker Jr._

'_Bewitched,__'__ 'That's Life', Frank Sinatra_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like mocha lattes-a delicious treat! :)_**


	10. Chapter 10

_October 29th_

_4:30 p.m._

Jason finished the last bite of cookie, bolted his glass of milk and picked up his plate. "MomcanIgointotown?" he said. Mom looked up from her seed catalog—a new one had just come in the mail that morning from some company called Landreth's, and she was already making a list of potential purchases. He'd go over it next and they'd compare notes, then talk about what they wanted to plant. Normally he'd be ready to jump right into the project, but at the moment he had something else on his mind.

"It's a little late to do that," Mom said mildly. "It'll be dark soon. Where are you headed?"

"To see Roz," he said, and hoped his honesty would win him permission. Mom sat back. She looked troubled.

"She may not want visitors," she said. Jason shifted his gaze to the floor.

"I just want to know if she's okay," he mumbled, and hated it when he felt his cheeks grow warm. Mom said nothing, but he knew she was watching him.

"All right," she said after a few moments. "But only if I go with you, and we only see her if it's okay with her doctor. Deal?"

He nodded, aware of a secret sense of relief. He wasn't quite sure what to expect from that night's events, even though both Mom and Dad had talked with him about it to make sure he understood what had happened. Still, having Mom with him would be reassuring, though of course he'd never admit that to her. "Yeah," he said. "Can we go now?"

Mom set aside her pen and stood. "Wash up your plate. When you're done grab your coat, it's cold out."

They drove into the village in silence. Jason watched the scenery go past. In a couple of days it would be Halloween. He'd never really been into the whole dressing-up thing, mainly because no one had ever offered or had the materials to make even a basic costume, though he had managed to get plenty of candy every year by making the rounds with a plastic bag and a big smile. He'd lived off the swag for days, carefully rationed because it meant he'd have something to eat when there was nothing else in the house. Now he really didn't care that much about trick-or-treating. He liked Mom's celebrations for Samhain far better. At the beginning of October he'd helped her decorate the house, putting out candles and votives, bunches of leaves gathered from the trees around their home, pumpkins and gourds and cornstalks from their garden. She'd also used branches of a vine he'd never seen before. It was bare except for a few berries at the end of each twig. They were a dark orange-red, with some kind of lighter yellowy-orange skin that had peeled back in sections.

"They're called bittersweet," Mom had said when he'd asked about them. "I've always loved them, both for their beauty and their name."

"Why?" he'd asked. Mom looked sad for a moment.

"I have my reasons," was her quiet reply.

On the memory of that conversation he said aloud, "Why didn't Roz tell anyone she was pregnant?"

Mom brought Minnie Lou to a stop at the light. "I can't really talk about that," she said quietly. "I don't want you to ask her about it either, okay? Roz is going through a tough time right now. If you're going to see her just to satisfy your curiosity, we're turning around."

"No," he said, a little shocked at her stern tone. "That's not why I want to see her, honest."

The light changed color. Mom nodded as she moved the truck forward. "Okay. I trust you, Jason."

Her quiet statement confused him, though he felt some pride too. If she meant what she said, why couldn't she tell him what was going on? Adults always felt like they had to hide everything from someone younger than them, it was stupid. He'd just have to figure things out on his own, as usual.

"She's been okayed for visitors," Mrs. Meyer said when they reached the nurses station. She didn't smile though, and her grey eyes held sadness. "I'll ask if she's up for having anyone see her." She disappeared, to return a few minutes later. "Don't stay too long. Fifteen minutes, tops."

Jason almost wished he could hold his mother's hand as they walked to the ward. Roz was at the end, her bed screened off; the other beds were empty. Mom stopped at the curtain. "Hey," she said softly. "Okay if we come in?"

"Hey." Roz's voice was quiet but loud enough to be heard. Mom moved the curtain aside a little.

"Jason's with me," she said. Roz must have indicated it was all right, because Mom held the curtain open for him to enter. Jason did so with some hesitation. Roz lay in the bed with her head propped up a bit. She was very pale, her eyes closed, but when he came in she opened them.

"Jason," she said. Her gaze flickered over to Mom. "Sare."

Mom put her hand over Roz's and took it in a gentle grip. "Jason wanted to come by and see how you were doing," she said gently. "Me too. I'd planned to come later today, but this seemed like a better idea." She gave Roz's hand a squeeze. "If you want us not to talk, that's okay."

"No . . . it's good to have both of you here." Roz moved a little and winced.

"You don't have to say anything," Mom said. "I know it hurts." She brushed a lock of hair from Roz's forehead, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. "If you'd like the company, we'll just sit here and be with you." She hesitated. "Has anyone else been in to see you?"

Roz closed her eyes. To Jason's dismay, a tear slid down her cheek. "He hasn't come yet," she whispered. Mom bowed her head, but not before Jason saw profound sadness in her expression.

"Jason," she said quietly, "I need to speak with Roz alone for a little while. Could you go to the waiting room please?" She looked at him; her sea-green eyes held a silent plea. He was about to object to this, but one look at Roz's face kept him from saying anything. He got up and trudged out to the waiting room.

_This was __my__ idea_, he thought with some resentment as he stomped off. _I'm the one who wanted to see her! And now everyone's treating me like I'm a five year old. So much for trusting me. This sucks! _

As he entered the waiting room, he glanced through the doors to the parking lot. House's car sat several spaces down from the entrance. It looked like House was sitting in it, too. Jason frowned. What was House doing? He hadn't been there when they'd arrived . . . He thought about the night Roz had lost the baby, the look on House's face when Jason had told him something was wrong. He'd been scared, but not just for Roz—there was something else, something that frightened him just as much as Roz being in danger.

'He hasn't come yet,' Roz had said. Jason stared at the Chevelle. Was House afraid to be close to Roz because she'd lost the baby? Was he mad at her? That didn't seem right. So what could it be? Was he mad that she got pregnant? Maybe he never wanted kids and thought she'd done it on purpose.

"It doesn't matter," he said out loud. "He should come see her anyway." A surge of anger filled him suddenly, along with a strange protectiveness directed toward Roz. He got up from his seat, intent on going to talk to House, to find him getting out of the car. He shut the door, then moved slowly to the entrance; his reluctance was plain. Jason stepped back so House couldn't see him, and watched the older man. He came to the automatic doors and stopped when they opened, waited long enough for them to start to close again, then moved forward so they jerked apart. He looked both ways as he came into the foyer, and saw Jason. His throat moved before he scowled. To his astonishment Jason realized House was afraid, just as he had been the night Roz lost the baby.

"What the hell are you looking at?" House snapped. His voice shook a little.

"Why haven't you been to see Roz?" Jason demanded. House's eyes widened, and that scared look flashed across his face for a moment before he glared at Jason.

"None of your goddamn business. Get out of my way," he snarled, though Jason was nowhere near him, and headed for the ward. As he passed the nurses station Mrs. Meyer saw him and got to her feet.

"Doctor House," she said, but House ignored her and went into the ward. Jason followed. He noticed House was limping hard, a weird thing for him to do—usually it was barely noticeable. House went straight to the curtained area, only to have Mrs. Meyer get there before him. She was out of breath and red-faced, but she stood in front of him, blocking his way. "Doctor House, you can't—"

"I said get the hell out of my way," House growled, then fell silent as Roz's voice cut through their argument.

"It's all right, he can come in."

With a last scorching look at Jason and Mrs. Meyer, House pushed the curtain aside. "Fuck off," he said harshly, and then yanked the curtain shut behind him.

[H]

He'd known this would be hard as hell, but he hadn't planned on an audience. The kid's harassed him and now his shrink is sitting next to his wife. Still, without a single word Sarah gets up and leaves them alone. Before she leaves, she puts her hand on his arm—the light touch habitual with her. Her love and concern are almost more than he can bear right now, but he also draws strength from her feelings for him. She gives him a little pat, and leaves. The kid sends him a sullen look but follows after his mom. Greg waits until he hears all the footsteps fading, then stands by the bed. Roz watches him. Her eyes are a deep moss green, glassy with the meds they have her on; but he can still see the pain there, the kind no narcotic can touch. He looks away because he can't bear to see her hurting in any way.

"Nice of you to show up." The anguish under the bitterness makes him flinch.

"You didn't want to see me anyway," he says. Roz struggles into a sitting position. He glances at the monitor and sees numbers climb in response—heart rate, respiration, blood pressure.

"How about you let me make that decision?"

"I do that, you get to yell at me while I just take it. Bad dog, no biscuit. No thanks." He wants this to be over so he can go back to the house, pack his stuff and leave—he knows that's next. Roz glares at him. Someone pokes their head through the curtains. "I'm a doctor, she's all right. Beat it!" he snaps, and the person disappears. "I'll move out, stay at the clinic," he goes on, avoiding her gaze. "You can call me—"

"_Testa di cazzo!_" she says. There's a faint flush in her cheeks now. "_È stupido__, sei un idiota!__" _To his horror there are tears on her lashes, shimmering in her eyes. "Stop telling me how things will be when you haven't even—even _talked_ to me, you big dumbass!" She shoots him a fiery glare that should make him spontaneously combust. "Sit down and listen to me before you decide how things are!"

Without another word he obeys. Roz faces him. She struggling with strong emotions; her hands clench on the blanket, trembling. He bows his head and waits for her to kick him out of her life for good.

"I made a mistake. I should have honored my promise to you," she says, to his complete astonishment. He looks up to stare at her in shock. She's angry, but she's trying to just say what she has to say, practical as always. He takes immense reassurance from this familiar sign. "Before we got married we—we talked about what we'd do if somehow I got pregnant, and I agreed to no children because I never thought it would happen. That was wrong. I should have thought it through, made it a considered decision. I . . ." She hesitates. "I tried to fix it, but then the miscarriage happened . . . Anyway—for what it's worth, that's how I feel on my side of things."

He sits back. This is one of the reasons why he loves her—her singular honesty, simple and unaffected. Anyone else would be blaming him and getting the hell out of Dodge. This is hurting her though, and he can't bear it. "Okay," he says after a few moments. Roz nods. She lies down, though it's plainly painful for her to move much at all, and closes her eyes. As she does so something she said stands out. "You tried to fix it," he says. "What does that mean?"

"When you go home, look at the appointments page for next week in my datebook." She sounds so tired now.

"You were going to terminate the pregnancy," he says. She nods and turns her head away.

"Surprised you, didn't I?" The bitterness is back.

"No," he says. "I'm sorry."

She doesn't answer right away. "For what?"

He fidgets. "I don't know."

"Gregory." The use of his full name makes him wince. Here it comes, his chance to screw things up so completely there will be no going back. "Tell me."

"You need everything spelled out," he snaps. His hands are shaking. "Pathetic."

"Yeah, sometimes I do. You knew that when you married me," she says. "I haven't asked you for much, but I'm asking now, and if you're smart you'll tell me. What does 'I'm sorry' mean?"

He would give anything to get those words back, even as he does he knows they were the right words to say, exactly right. "I'm sorry I didn't come to you," he says at last. For a long time Roz doesn't answer. Then she says,

"I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise."

They sit there for a while.

"What do we do now?" he asks finally. He's scared of the answer but he has to ask.

"We go home." She hesitates. "Please."

That last word nearly destroys him. "You don't have to beg," he growls at her. "I'll talk to Singh. Tomorrow, probably—"

"Today," she says. "Make it today."

Four hours later she's sitting in the front seat beside him, wrapped in his pea coat as he drives with precise care down the road. She doesn't say anything, just stares out the window as bare trees pass by.

Hellboy is there to greet them when they arrive. He winds around Roz's legs, his purr loud enough to cause seismic tremors. When she goes to the couch he follows her, to settle himself behind her knees as she lies down. Greg brings pillows from the bedroom and the electric blanket she uses sometimes. He makes sure she's comfortable, that her pain meds are on the coffee table with a glass of water and a couple of cookies, and the phone and the tv remote are within reach. Then he goes into the kitchen, puts on his coat.

"What are you doing?" Roz's voice carries through the quiet house.

"Going to work," he says.

"Please stay." It's a simple request, but he can feel the pain behind it. "You don't have to sit with me and hold my hand, just—just stay."

"Eventually I have to leave the house." He knows that's a terrible thing to say, but he can't stop the words coming out of his mouth.

"Yes, I know. But not tonight." She doesn't say anything else. Slowly he takes off his coat, hangs it back on the hook.

He ends up in the study while Roz watches tv. He leaves the door open, but that's as close as he can get to her right now. When he finally comes out for a beer and something to eat she's asleep, her pale face lit by the flickering light of the screen. Hellboy is snuggled in by her side. He opens his golden eyes and watches Greg with a steady, unblinking gaze; she's well-protected. Greg knows he should be the one doing that, not the cat. Defeated, he heads back into the study, where he returns to case files he doesn't want to read and test results that give him no clues.

[H]

"Mom."

Roz blinked, still half asleep. Someone sat by the couch.

"Greg?" she asked, confused.

"No, it's me." The young man tilted his head just a bit, and she caught her breath. He was lean and lanky, with dark curly hair and green eyes and Greg's long, strong features, his dimples and rare smile. "Don't worry, Mom. Everything's gonna be all right." He leaned forward; his hand touched hers. Roz felt a deep surge of love move from him to her, powerful as rushing water. "See you later," he whispered.

"Are you okay?"

Greg stood over her, frowning. Roz blinked. She looked at the young man but he was gone. Slowly she sat up. "I was dreaming," she said, and heard a soft chuckle in her mind, an audible echo of that sweet slow smile. "Or—or something."

Greg looked both confused and alarmed. He edged over to the couch and perched on it. "Do you need to go to the ER?" he asked, and avoided her gaze. His fear stabbed at her. So she told him what she'd seen, and knew she risked his ridicule and scorn in doing so; but she also knew she had to do it—the young man (_their son_, that quiet little voice within insisted) wanted her to tell him.

Greg listened to her without comment. When she'd finished he was silent for a while. "Wishful thinking," he said at last, but there was no sting in his words.

"Maybe, maybe not," she said. He tilted his head and she caught her breath at the resemblance.

"Whatever helps you cope with loss is your business. Just don't expect me to believe in a fucking fairy tale," he said, and got to his feet, to stalk off to the bedroom. Roz sighed softly.

_So much for that_, she thought, and closed her eyes on an ache of emptiness.

She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when she heard the piano. She paused, listening. The song wasn't familiar to her, but it was plain Greg knew it well. She rinsed out her mouth, wiped her hands on her towel and ventured into the living room. It was shrouded in darkness, with only the light from the bedroom offering any illumination. She stopped a few feet away. Greg looked over and saw her. He paused, then moved over a bit on the bench—his usual tacit invitation to sit beside him. The gesture surprised her. She accepted and watched his clever hands move over the keys.

"What is it?" she asked after a moment or two. Greg didn't answer her directly. Instead he began to sing—a rarity, as he'd always been self-conscious about his voice.

_You may not have me all the time_

_you may never go my way_

_mother earth is laying for you_

'_cause of all the debts you got to pay_

_don't care how great you are_

_don't care what you worth_

_when it all ends up you got to _

_go back to mother earth_

When the song was done she dared to put a hand on his arm. "I know," she said. He sighed softly.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he said. "But I can't—"

"It's okay," she said. "I don't expect you to believe. Maybe it's enough that I do." As she said it she knew it was true. "I won't bring it up again."

"I'm sorry," he said eventually. "I'm sorry you had to go through this."

"So am I." She gave his arm a little squeeze. "We're both tired. Let's go to bed."

"You . . . do you want to sleep in the bedroom?" His hesitation made her heart ache. "If you don't that's—I can take the couch-"

"I want to be in my own bed, with you next to me," she said. "It won't make the problems go away, but I don't care."

She fell asleep with Greg's arm around her waist, his lean body pressed close.

'_Mother Earth', Memphis Slim __(there's also a fine cover by Johnny Winter) _


	11. Chapter 11

_November 9th_

_9:30 a.m._

Sarah finished picking the last chord progression for 'Cold Frosty Morning' and glanced out the window. It was exactly that in reality—a chill and blustery day, dark clouds racing overhead to send sunlight chasing over the fallen leaves, all glazed with white. It would snow later on, she could feel it in her bones, literally; they ached a bit and her hands were stiff despite the hour-long practice session she'd put in after walking with Jason to the bus stop. At least the kitchen was comfortable. She'd baked a batch of cookies to fill the jar after the depredations of the weekend, and to heat things up a bit. Still, a cup of tea would get her insides warm too. She set her mandolin aside and rose, stretching.

As she extracted a bag of decaf from the canister, she heard Barbarella pull into the drive just a little too fast. _So he's finally here._ Sarah felt her heart lift. While she hated seeing him in distress, she also welcomed the chance to talk with her oldest boy.

The front door crashed open, then boomed shut. A few moments later Greg stood in the kitchen doorway frowning at her. The sight of his lean form sent a rush of affection and concern through her, but she didn't let it show; he wouldn't appreciate emotional displays at the moment. She just put the teabag in her mug and took the kettle from the range. "Good morning," she said as she filled the mug. "Come on in. You caught me at the right time. Have a seat and taste-test some cookies for me, I just baked them." She was careful to keep her tone casual.

Greg stayed where he was. "You don't have to wipe my ass and change my underwear for me the second I walk in," he snapped. Sarah took a spoon from the dishrack.

"Now there's a lovely mental image," she said dryly. "I don't plan on doing anything of the kind. Stop fidgeting and sit down."

"You can't order me around like you do with that yard ape you keep for your amusement," he muttered, but he did as she asked and stalked to the table, to drop into a chair. He unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off, folded his arms, hunched his shoulders and gave her what he clearly meant to be an intimidating stare. Sarah left her tea bag to steep while she went to the fridge and retrieved the milk jug. She added some milk and a teaspoon of sugar to the brew, unperturbed by his glower.

"So what brings you to my kitchen?" she prompted. Greg eyed the sugar cookies cooling on a wire rack but didn't take one.

"You know why I'm here," he said.

"Tell me anyway." She discarded the teabag and came to the table. Greg lowered his brows.

"I see . . ." he said. "Gonna make me talk, eh copper?"

"You're the one who came to me. I'm willing to listen." She took a cookie and munched it. "Mmmm . . . pretty good if I say so myself."

"Modest to the end," Greg mocked, but he didn't follow her hint. He also didn't say anything else. Sarah swallowed and sipped her tea. If she knew her boy, he wouldn't be able to hold out for long.

"So we're just gonna sit here," Greg said after a minute or so. "Put on some music at least." Sarah eyed him over the rim of her mug but said nothing. He heaved a loud stage sigh. "Okay, fine. I decided to offer you the chance to bitch me out for taking two days to see my wife after the miscarriage."

_Nice opening move, trying to put me on the defensive._ "Why would I do that?" she asked, her tone mild.

"Come on, you know you're dying to lecture me on what a heartless jerk I am." He slouched down in the chair a bit. "Only a real bastard would have ignored a woman who'd just miscarried."

Sarah took another bite of cookie. "Hmm . . . needs a pinch more salt," she said aloud. Greg glared at her.

"If you're not gonna take this seriously-"

"Why should I beat you up? You're doing a fine job of it all by yourself," she said.

"I'm just saying what you're thinking."

"It's plain you don't have the slightest idea what I'm thinking," Sarah said, though she knew it wasn't true; he knew her as well as she knew him. "Which is disappointing, considering how long we've been indulging in sessions like these." She licked a crumb from her finger and took another cookie.

"Ah, we've come to the challenge round." Greg narrowed his eyes. "What's eating Sarah Goldman?"

"Actually I think I'm the one doing the eating." She nibbled her cookie.

"You didn't push me to go to my wife's side," he continued, still staring at her. Sarah chewed and swallowed before she answered.

"The day comes when you have to take off the trainin' wheels and let the kid learn to balance for himself."

Greg's eyes widened a little. "What?"

"You heard me."

"That's something of a cavalier attitude, don't you think?" He was actually _angry_. Sarah tilted her head and observed him.

"And just what do you believe my forcing you to go to Roz would have accomplished? You think she would have thought anything you said was truthful or meaningful?" She shook her head. "It had to be your choice, not mine or anyone else's. And you did the right thing, son. It took you a while and that's something you should talk about with her, but you did it. You don't—" She stopped, her throat suddenly crowded with unexpected tears. "You don't need those trainin' wheels anymore. And I'm—I'm glad."

"You're crying." Greg's voice rose. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She picked up her mug.

"Liar. You're a damn sentimental redneck, and it's thoroughly disgusting watching you blubber over stupid shit." He reached out, stole a cookie from her plate, examined it, and took a bite. "Needs salt," he said, chewing noisily.

"Brat," Sarah said, but she was smiling now through the tears. She sipped her tea. "'Love isn't someplace that we fall/it's something that we do'," she quoted softly into the ensuing silence.

"Here it comes," Greg groused, but Sarah saw his shoulders lower a bit and knew he needed this, needed her to think out loud for him, give him something to analyze and argue over and perhaps add to his own philosophy, eventually. She put down her mug, wiped her fingers on her jeans and picked up her mandolin. He rolled his eyes but didn't object when she began to play. She strummed softly through the chords, careful to keep her gaze focused on the window, and felt Greg relax slowly as music filled the kitchen.

_we're on a road that has no end_

_and each day we begin again_

_love's not just something that we're in_

_it's something that we do_

"You really believe that," he said at the end, when a comfortable silence had fallen. Sarah sat back, cradling the mandolin. She looked around her kitchen, at the casual clutter of baking, the glimpse of her garden through the back room window, the untidy pile of boots huddled under the coats hung by the door, the science report displayed in a place of honor on the fridge along with cartoons and magnets and shopping lists.

"Yes," she said quietly. She understood he was asking more for reassurance than anything else. "You know I do. Gene and I have been through some tough times, just as rough as the one you and Roz are going through now. But eventually we chose to work together, even when it was the hardest possible path to take." She began to pick the chords for 'Cold Frosty Morning' once more. "It's easy to be with someone when life is good and the sun's shining."

He didn't reply for some time. Then, "I can't stand seeing her in pain." She could barely hear him. "Especially when I caused it. I always—always cause it."

"No, you don't," Sarah said firmly. Greg looked up at her. His vivid gaze was haunted, anguished. Her heart ached for him, but she didn't give in to the emotion.

"How can you say that?" It was almost an accusation.

"If Roz were here, she'd tell you it was her fault because she broke her promise to you. And before you ask, yes, we did talk and she gave me permission to use our conversation if you came to me." Sarah paused to take a swallow of tea. "You're both wrong."

"She . . . she's not at fault here."

"Neither are you," Sarah said.

"You have to say that. You're my—" Greg hesitated. "My shrink."

"And your mother _in locus_," Sarah said with a slight smile. "But even if I wasn't, I'd say it all the same, _filius_." One corner of Greg's mouth quirked upward.

"Latin geek," he said, and she chuckled.

"Guilty as charged." She strummed the chord, moved to the next. "We haven't played together in a while." Greg took the hint. With a roll of his eyes he crammed the rest of the cookie in his mouth, along with another. Jaws working, he rose to his feet and went out of the kitchen. Sarah watched the fluid grace, the lack of hesitation as he walked into the living room, and felt the tears rise again. When he came back she was wiping her eyes.

"Oh, for god's sake," he said, but he looked anxious. Sarah gave him a watery smile.

"Just bein' a mom. Sit down."

"If you're gonna—" he began. Sarah flapped a hand at him.

"_Sit._"

He plopped into the chair and began tuning the guitar. "So both of us made mistakes," he said, not looking at her.

"Yes, because you're both human. It's inevitable." Sarah tapped a harmonic, frowned and tuned the string; the bottom A liked to slip when the weather changed. "It doesn't help to take all the blame on yourself, son. Roz doesn't want you to do that. She'd like you to look at things with her and be honest. Then tell her you love her in your own way, and stay by her side if you can. Tell her it's not her fault either, she needs to hear that from you. She'll do the same for you, you know."

Greg finished his task and gave her a long look. "All that, huh?" He began to pick the song once more, using a chord progression different from the one she'd just played. Sarah smiled at him, recognizing the challenge for what it was-a silent apology and a dare as well, typical of him; he liked multiple purposes for every action.

"All that," she said, and began to play harmony to his lead.

"So what did you find out from the genetic testing?" she asked after the song was done and a lull had fallen. Greg looked surprised.

"How did you-?"

"I know my oldest boy," she said. "There's no way you'd leave this mystery unexplored."

He didn't answer her right away. "I suspected a Rhesus incompatibility from the start," he said at last. "But usually that's more of a problem if the mother is Rh negative, and Roz is O positive." He sighed softly. "Nothing significant showed up for either one of us. There are always a few anomalies, but it's likely none of the ones I found on either side would have caused a spontaneous abortion."

Sarah nodded. "Are you going to keep going?"

"There's always a reason." Greg gave her a defiant glance. "It's my job to find out what it is."

"I understand," Sarah said mildly.

"You think I should let it go." He set the guitar aside, selected a cookie from the rack and munched it, got up. He went to the coffeemaker and poured a cup, added a generous amount of sugar. His restlessness told her he was troubled. She said nothing, just waited. He sat down once more, took a cookie and dunked it. "Yeah, I know it isn't like she's gonna have another kid, but inquiring minds want to know."

"So do obsessive ones," Sarah said. Greg leaned back, mug in hand.

"Ah, here it comes—the truth after all that 'you're not to blame' bullshit," he said. "Lay it on me, _Mom_."

Sarah didn't let the mockery get to her. "Of course you're obsessive. It's an asset in your work," she said. "But I'd suggest in this case you talk with Roz about it before you delve in. See what she has to say."

"She'll say no." Greg took a swallow of coffee. "She'll want to forget this whole mess ever happened, undoubtedly."

"Ask her," Sarah said. "You just might be surprised."

Greg's gaze slid away from hers. "So what's going on for Thanksgiving, as if I didn't know?" he asked. Sarah took the change of subject without hesitation. Despite his discomfort with the emotional intensity of their conversation, she knew he'd think about what she'd said. Undoubtedly he'd proceed with his investigation, but he'd do it with a heightened awareness of Roz's feelings.

"Prof's spending the weekend," she said. Greg groaned.

"You just had to invite the Brit," he said. "He's supposed to be in Manhattan at that chichi greasy spoon of his, supplying paper-thin slices of heirloom, free-range, hand-fed, all vegetarian-diet organic turkey breast with a spoonful of chopped wild cranberries and blood oranges and French green beans in black truffle sauce to idiots who'll hand over a couple of hundred bucks for the privilege."

"I'll tell him you said that," Sarah said, amused. "Makes my cornbread stuffing sound pretty tame by comparison."

"Oh, shut up. You know you're a good cook, stop fishing for compliments." Greg paused. "My significant other . . . she might not want . . ." He fell silent.

"If she's not ready for company, we'll try something else," Sarah said. "Why don't you ask her?" Greg stared into his mug and said nothing. Sarah set aside her sadness at his pain. "Give her time," she said softly. "She loves you, but she's struggling with a loss she never thought she'd face, along with disappointing you."

"She—" He hesitated. "She didn't disappoint me. More like the other way around." He fidgeted with the mug, plunked it on the table. "Gotta head off to work." He rose to his feet. Sarah set the mandolin aside and stood also. She came around the table as he put on his coat. Greatly daring, she did up the buttons, slipped her arms about him, brought him close in a gentle hug. He stood stiff and unresponsive for a few moments. Then his arms slowly lifted to return her embrace with apparent reluctance. Still, she felt him relax as she continued to hold him.

"I'm so glad you came to see me," she said softly. "You're welcome here, you know that. This is your first home and always will be, son. You and Roz are part of our family, and we love you both."

He sighed and his arms tightened just a little. "Seriously, put more salt in the next batch," he said after a moment. Sarah snorted a laugh.

"Oh—you!" She smacked him lightly and gave him a little squeeze, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. He looked down at her. In his bright gaze she saw everything he couldn't say. "Love you," she said, and offered a smile.

She followed him to the door, and waved him off to work until his car disappeared down the lane.

'_Cold Frosty Morning', traditional arrangement (recordings abound)_

'_Something That We Do', Clint Black_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews are a fic writer's only paycheck :)_**


	12. Chapter 12

_November 17__th_

_10:30 a.m._

It was later than usual for her to wake, even on a Saturday morning, but she didn't really care. Roz blinked and yawned, stretched a little, then rolled over. The other side of the bed was empty—so Greg hadn't come home last night again. He'd gone in just before dinner, after Chase had called to let him know their patient was in trouble. She'd waited up and been rewarded with a brief call around midnight, when he hadn't been sure if he'd come home or not . . . at least he'd let her know he was thinking of her. She remembered the anxious worry under his flippant words, and felt the chill around her heart warm just a bit. She hoped he'd gotten some rest; when he came home she'd do her best to see that he ate well and went to bed early.

She stared out the window. It was snowing, the first real storm of the season. By afternoon there would be several inches on the ground, with a few more coming in overnight; it would put everyone in the Christmas mood, even though it wasn't Thanksgiving yet. Holidays . . . the thought of them made her wince. She wasn't sure she could endure sitting at someone else's dinner table, having to make small talk and pretend people weren't thinking about the miscarriage whenever they looked at her and Greg. Still, it would be dinner at Sarah and Gene's, with just a few people over; it wasn't like they'd be in the fire hall with the whole village watching . . . and yet the thought of spending the day here alone was more than she could stand.

Slowly she sat up. The physical pain was gone now, had been for some time, but she felt a curious hollowness inside. And loneliness too. Greg was trying hard to be with her, but at the moment it felt like he stood on one side of a chasm and she on the other, with no way to meet.

Roz sighed and got out of bed. She pulled on her bathrobe and headed for the shower. The hot water would feel good, even if it didn't touch the small, cold core of numbness deep within

An hour or so later she was in the kitchen making coffee when someone knocked at the door. It was Jason. He peered at her, his breath frosting the window. Roz came over to let him in.

"Good morning," she said as he entered with an eagerness he didn't bother to hide. "How much snow?"

"Three inches so far," he said, with a casual attitude that didn't fool her in the least. Every kid got excited over the first snow, even teenagers. "We're supposed to get three or four more later tonight."

"Big wet flakes," Roz said. "Good for snowballs and forts." She felt a faint nostalgia for the days when she and Poppi built snowmen together in the front yard. "So what's up?"

"Mom's working on a recipe," Jason said. "She was saying she'd like someone besides me and Dad to try it because we'll eat anything sweet. So I thought maybe—maybe you'd like to come over and help her."

Roz raised her brows and was surprised to feel reluctant amusement at the intrigue employed. Quite plainly Jason felt she needed some company, and Sarah's test-baking was as good an excuse as any in his eyes. "Which one is it this time?"

"It's the pumpkin cheesecake one." He sounded almost reverent. Roz hid a smile.

"Okay. Would you like a cup of hot cocoa before we go? It's a cold walk back home." She uttered this fib with a straight face; it took all of two minutes to get to Sarah's warm kitchen from their doorstep.

"Yeah. Thanks," Jason said. He sat at the table while she got a mug from the tree next to the coffeemaker, and put some milk to heat on the stove. "Can—can I ask you a question?"

Roz glanced at him. He wasn't looking at her, and his face was red—not altogether due to exposure to cold, she suspected. "Of course," she said. Jason nodded.

"Thanks." He hesitated. "Are you okay?"

The query was a simple one. She could have given him the easy reply most adults would use with a child, but that just didn't seem right, not with Jason. She knew he wasn't asking just to be polite, or out of idle curiosity. "Most of the time," she said. "Some days are better than others."

Jason nodded. He fidgeted with his gloves, his gaze on the floor. Roz was reminded strongly of Greg. "What was it like?" he said. He was very red now, one knee bouncing up and down in a nervous rhythm.

"You mean, to lose a pregnancy?" She should have been offended by the question, but somehow she wasn't. It was the first time anyone had asked it. "Well . . . it was hard, because I knew what was happening and couldn't stop it." She paused, trying to find the right words while she stirred the milk. "In my head I know it's probably for the best—if there was something really wrong with the fetus, it's probably better that it didn't survive . . . but it still makes me sad."

"You and House can try again," Jason said.

"No, we don't want children," Roz said. She took the milk off the stove. "What happened was a mistake—"

"Babies aren't mistakes."

Roz turned to face Jason. He kept his gaze on the floor, but there was a stubborn set to his expression that told her she'd hit a raw nerve. She came over to sit next to him.

"Jason, I like children," she said softly. "I just don't want any of my own, and neither does Greg. We decided that before we got married."

"Were you going to have an abortion?" The accusation in his voice shocked her. Her first impulse was to lash out at him; she was still struggling with that decision, and probably always would. She took a deep breath.

"That's not for you to know," she said, and couldn't keep the pain out of her words, though she tried to sound firm but gentle. Jason flinched.

"'msorry," he mumbled. Even his ears were bright red now. Roz started to put her hand on his shoulder, saw him cringe away from her touch. Her anger faded when she remembered his own history. Undoubtedly his parents had told him he was a mistake, among other things.

"It's all right to ask questions," she said. "You should understand that you won't always get answers, though."

Jason hunched his shoulders. "Yes ma'am," he said.

"You know you can call me Roz," she said. "How do you want your cocoa? With marshmallows or without?"

They had cinnamon toast too—about the only thing that appealed to her as some kind of breakfast.

"When will you go back to work?" Jason asked. He was still cautious but a bit more relaxed; he munched his toast with enthusiasm. Considering Sarah had no doubt given him a massive breakfast, it was a testament to the fast metabolism of a growing boy that he could stow away even more food so soon after a big meal.

"Next week," Roz said. The idea held no enjoyment, but it did offer her a chance to get out of a silent house and keep herself occupied.

"Why don't you just tutor? You're really good at it." Jason's brown eyes held admiration. Roz couldn't help but smile.

"Thanks," she said, and gave in to the temptation to tease just a little. "Not bad for a girl, huh?"

He went red. "I don't think that anymore."

"Good for you. You listened to the women around you and changed your mind. I'd say that's pretty smart."

Jason ducked his head, but not before Roz saw a corner of his mouth quirk up. "_Ragazzo_," she said, amused at his response. It was good to feel the urge to laugh, no matter how small the impulse. "Guess we should be on our way, or your mother will start to worry."

"She doesn't—" Jason began, and fell silent. His blush deepened to scarlet. "I came over on my own," he said in a small voice. The amusement Roz felt faded, replaced by surprise, and then gratitude.

"Thank you, Jason," she said quietly. "That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time."

Jason helped her wash up without being asked; he was good at it too, quick and efficient. Roz was reminded once more of Greg, though her husband usually preferred to work in secret, or without anyone discovering what he'd done until he was long gone. Jason was more open about things; he didn't have that crippling fear of being ridiculed or rejected for doing something nice, nor did he generally have an ulterior motive for anything he did. Roz knew Greg understood the difference between him and his unofficial protégé; she thought he might be jealous of Jason's lack of baggage in this one area at least, but he never said anything. Still, his feelings were there for anyone who took the time to look past his outward behavior.

It only took a moment or two to bundle up and grab her cell phone before they set off along the lane. It wasn't terribly cold but the air was chill, full of fat wet flakes that came down thick and fast.

"Dad bought some hand lenses so we could look at the snowflake structures," Jason said. "He found a book on them too, some guy took pictures of flakes he'd caught on frozen slides. They're really cool."

"I'd like to see that," Roz said. "Maybe later on we could go out and study some."

Jason sent her a pleased look. "Wicked. Yeah, okay."

Sarah's kitchen was warm and fragrant, as always. Roz breathed in the smell of woodsmoke, coffee and spiced pumpkin, and was glad she'd come over.

"Well hey, stranger!" Sarah hurried to greet her with a hug. She wore a simple white apron over her clothes, her bright curls covered with a worn blue bandana. Roz was amused to see a paperback tucked in one of her pockets; Sarah was an inveterate reader and took almost any idle moment to peruse a few paragraphs. "So good to see you!" She glanced at Jason. "So that's where you went."

"It was really nice of him to think of coming over," Roz said. "I . . . I needed to get out of the house anyway."

Sarah gave her a warm smile. "You're always welcome here, you know that," she said softly. "Now, are you up for some taste-testing?"

The cheesecake proved as good as Roz knew it would be. She accepted a small slice and was surprised to find she wanted more. She took a seat at the table as her plate was handed to her, and felt her cell phone shift in her pocket, a reminder to let Greg know where she was. She didn't want to think about what would happen if he came home and found her gone.

To her surprise he picked up on the first ring. "What?" He sounded tense.

"Everything's okay. I'm over at Sarah and Gene's," she said quietly. "We're checking out Sarah's pumpkin cheesecake recipe. I'll probably be here for a while."

Without saying anything he hung up. Roz ended the call and tried not to feel hurt, but she couldn't help it.

"He doesn't know what to do or say," Sarah said behind her. She put a hand on Roz's shoulder, much as Roz had thought of doing with Jason earlier. "Apologies, I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"It's okay. I know." Roz put her hand over Sarah's. "He's been trying to stand with me, but he's so afraid he'll make things worse . . ."

"You're doing a good job of being patient with him, but you can push a little every now and then too," Sarah said. "He'll take it as a sign that you care, even though he'll give you a hard time."

Roz felt something like relief slide through her in a slow wave. "That's what I thought too," she said. "I just wasn't sure about—about pushing him."

"Give him a call," Sarah said, and patted her shoulder. "Tell him to get his butt over here when he's done at the clinic."

When Roz called it went to voicemail. "Come over to Sarah's when you're finished," she said, and knew she sounded weak and pathetic instead of strong and authoritative. _So what,_ she thought. _Screw it. I don't want to start any arguments we can't handle right now. If he thinks I'm a wuss, fine. _

"You command, I obey," Greg said behind her. She jumped as he snapped his cell phone shut. His blue eyes held wariness and concern together. "Taking the Okie's advice, I see."

He hadn't gone home, he'd come here first, and right after she'd called him. She did the first thing that came into her head. She went to him and slipped her arms around his waist, lay her cheek to his chest. After a moment he returned the embrace. His coat was still cold and he was covered with snowflakes; she watched one melt and closed her eyes, glad of his lean frame pressed close to hers. And then to her astonishment and his, she burst into tears.

Sometime later she became aware they were in a bedroom—one of the guest rooms upstairs. Greg worked on starting a fire in the woodstove. He must have taken her here while she was lost in blubbering like a five-year-old. She watched him, aware that tears still fell down her cheeks without any conscious effort on her part. He was aware of it too, if his tight shoulders and tense expression were anything to go by. Still, once the fire had caught he closed the door on the stove, turned to face her. He looked so miserable she felt a pang of guilt.

"I'm s-sorry," she said, her voice choked and halting. "I'm—"

"Stop it," he said harshly, and came around to stand in front of her. "What's wrong?" He swallowed, and Roz saw he was shaking. She'd scared him.

"I'm all right," she said. "If you want to get Sarah—"

He reached out and grabbed her hand, held it hard. He moved to the bed, sat down, guided her beside him. She sat, leaned into him and buried her face in his shirt.

They stayed that way for a long time. Eventually Roz lay down. She tugged on Greg and he came with her. The room was beginning to warm up, but they held each other close anyway.

"I have to go back," Greg said at last. "But I'll—I'll come home later, if I can."

"Can we sleep here?" She wiped her eyes. "Just for tonight? You know Sarah and Gene won't mind."

"You can't use staying here as a way to escape."

Now she knew what Sarah meant about a little push. "You mean like you're doing with work?"

Greg sighed. "I do have a patient," he said. His strong hands stroked her back. "I'm not staying away on purpose."

"Not even a little bit?" she dared to say. He made a noise that might have been a chuckle.

"I won't let you talk to that red-headed shrink of mine anymore if you keep this up."

Roz touched his cheek, felt him lean into her fingers. "I want to go home with you, but for right now . . . just for a while, I need some people around. It's not fair to ask you to fill up the empty places inside me because I know you're hurting too, you just won't say anything." She kissed the hinge of his jaw. "We don't need to stay here all the time."

"We'll be in residence most of next week." Greg brought her a little closer. "The place will be packed with more than enough idiots to make you happy." He hesitated. "If you . . .if you need to come over before then—just call me, so I—I know."

"I will if you will," she said softly. "Tell me when you're coming home and I'll be there. I don't want you to walk into an empty house, _amante_."

They lay together for a while, enjoying the closeness. At last Greg gave her a kiss. "I really do have to go," he said against her lips. "I'll see you here later on." He straightened. "Bring the damn cat over too or he'll think he's been abandoned."

For a long time after he left she lay in the quiet room. On the floor below she heard Gene say something to Sarah and her sweet laugh, and the slam of the back door as Jason came in with another load of firewood—homely sounds, accompanied by the pop and crackle of the fire in the woodstove. She wanted that feeling in her own home once more; for the first time in many days she thought she could help rebuild it . . . but for now, she'd find it here.

(_Jason's book is Ken Libbrecht's_ Field Guide to Snowflakes, ISBN-10: 0760326452; ISBN-13: 978-0760326459. Highly recommended!)

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined please leave a review, it's much appreciated. _**


	13. Chapter 13

_(Many thanks to all who've reviewed, including my guest reviewers, and everyone who's favorited the story and/or author. I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful, as always. _

_The next few chapters will deal with the American holiday of Thanksgiving, and then we'll move into Christmas. There are some surprises in store, hope you like them._

_If you are able, I would ask you to donate a little money, food or volunteer service to your local food pantry or soup kitchen. Many people are in need, and your generosity is most appreciated. -B)_

_November 20th_

_9:30 a.m._

Sarah pulled into the driveway and couldn't help but smile when she saw the travel-stained Range Rover parked neatly in the side yard. She brought Minnie Lou to the doorstep, shut down the engine and hopped out, grabbed a couple of shopping bags, then headed to the door. Prof knew where the extra key was, he'd be inside waiting for her.

Sure enough, he emerged from the kitchen as she came into the living room. "Sarah, my dear!" He beamed at her and opened his arms wide. She dumped the groceries on the couch and went to him, to be enveloped in a gentle hug. "It's so good to see you!"

"You too," she said, and returned his embrace with genuine delight. He'd lost weight, grown a little scruff and looked years younger. "When did you get here? How long can you stay?"

"One, I've only just arrived, and two, I've managed to wrangle nearly a fortnight from the restaurant schedule. You're burdened with me till next Sunday." Gordon smiled down at her. "How are you? And Gene, and your excellent son?"

"We're all doing well," she said, and it was the truth. "You know for yourself how hard Gene's working on things, and Jason is doing the same."

"Indeed I do know Gene's progress, and I'm proud of him—quite proud. And very glad to hear from you as well that young Jason is moving forward too. But what about you, my dear Sarah? I know we had a lengthy session together just last week, but this is a difficult time of year for you, for various and sundry reasons. How are you?"

"Doing okay," she said, and hated how evasive she sounded. Gordon gave her an inquiring look. His blue eyes glinted with humor, no doubt at her discomfiture.

"I see. Very well, we'll talk _tete-a-tete_ presently, but at the moment I believe you have victuals to be conveyed from that estimable vehicle of yours, so let us have at it." He raised his brows at her laugh. "Oh my goodness me, did I stoop to use of the vulgar vernacular? I beg your forgiveness."

He insisted on carrying most of the bags, so Sarah concentrated on putting things away. She glanced out the window at the lowering sky; he'd made it just ahead of the storm. At least this one wouldn't dump too much snow on them . . . The thought of impending winter didn't hold as much fear as in previous years, nor did the idea of a decorated tree in the living room; she was reluctant on both counts, but she could live with that. Even the memories of the terrors perpetrated the year before by Jason's biological father had lost some of their potency; the family therapy sessions and her personal work with Prof were making deep inroads there for all of them, a welcome progress. It was a relief not to feel dread crouching in the dark recesses of her mind, waiting to pounce at any moment.

"There, that's the last of them!" Gordon put the bag on the counter. "I'll just bring in my portmanteau and take that lovely room next to yours upstairs, if you approve."

"That's fine. Get settled and when you come down we'll have second breakfast," Sarah said, smiling.

Soon enough they sat together over two cups of Dublin Breakfast and toasted tea cakes. "I see I shall have to exercise every day to keep from regaining the _avoirdupois_ I've worked so very hard to lose," Gordon said on a laugh. "You're much too fine a baker, Sarah Jane."

Sarah smiled and stirred her tea. "Thanks. You look fantastic, Prof. Don't worry, I go for a walk daily as you know, and you're more than welcome to come with me. And we always have healthy alternatives to dessert and sweets available."

"Ah yes, your growing boy! Devouring everything in sight, is he?" Gordon bit into a buttered tea cake and closed his eyes in bliss.

"Pretty much. I think he's grown another two inches in the last month or so, we just had to buy him all new jeans again because his ended at mid-calf." Sarah added some milk to her cup. "Anyway, we have plenty of veggies and fruit in the fridge, please help yourself." She sipped her tea. "I've simplified the Thanksgiving menu this year. We'll have contributions from our guests of course, but everything else . . ." She paused. "It just doesn't seem right to have a huge pile of food when so many are going without even the basics. So we decided as a family to cut back."

"And undoubtedly ensured your donation to the local food pantry was twice the usual amount," Gordon said softly. Sarah looked away, but felt her cheeks grow warm.

"No one else knows about that," she said. "Please don't say anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it. You're above rubies, Sarah." The quiet pride in Gordon's voice made her heart swell with a mixture of embarrassment and affection.

"Just another out-of-work analyst," she said, and turned to face him. She smiled a little. "And a mom now too. Sometimes it feels like being thrown into the deep end, but having Jason with us is amazing."

"Well it's quite obvious you're dying to boast about his exploits, so have at it." Gordon leaned back in his chair, cup in hand. "I understand from your estimable husband that Jason excels in his studies and also monitors weather reporting stations, both here at home and at his school."

Sarah picked up a tea cake. "Yup," she said with pride. She took a bite, munched and made a mental note to add more raisins next time. "He has a little trouble with English. Spelling and grammar are not his forte, but he gets plenty of . . . encouragement, let's say."

Gordon nodded. "Ah, from his good friend Amanda. She's quite the author."

"How do you know that?" Sarah asked, intrigued by his interest.

"She writes a truly delightful blog on something called Tumblr, I believe. I don't pretend to understand how the technology works, but I am able to peruse her posts. An intelligent and lively mind. Admirably well-read too."

"She's a great blogger. I think she's working on a short story at the moment," Sarah said. "Roz helps both Jason and Mandy with their math classes."

Gordon's face brightened. "Ah, Mrs. House! How is Roz? And her husband, the good doctor?"

Sarah's enjoyment faded. "They're having a tough time of it right now," she said quietly. "I can't really talk about why."

Gordon set down his cup. "I'm very sorry to hear they're going through difficulties. I shan't ask, of course, but if one or the other, or both, wish to avail themselves of a listening ear, I won't say them nay."

"Thanks, Prof. I'll let them know." She sighed a little. "Roz is more likely to talk with you. Greg, not so much."

"I understand. Are they still working with Vorobyov? She's an excellent therapist."

"Yes. I think Hazel's helped them make great progress." Sarah sipped her tea. "What about you? How are things going at your place in Manhattan?"

Gordon took the change of subject with good grace. "Quite well. If I may fly my own kite, as they say, there's every chance that very shortly we'll earn a favorable review in several of New York's better periodicals, as well as the _Times_."

"That's incredible news! Congratulations!" Sarah reached out to take his hand in hers. "I'd ask you to contribute a recipe to the festivities, but I don't want this to be a busman's holiday."

"Nonsense, I'd be delighted." Gordon clasped her fingers just as Greg came into the kitchen. He paused at the sight of Prof, then sent their hands a pointed stare.

"Is this a scheduled assignation or can anyone join in?"

"Doctor House," Gordon said, looking amused. He gave Sarah's fingers a gentle squeeze and let go. "How delightful to see you once more. I do hope you're well."

Greg gave him a brief once-over and turned away. "It's a workday. 'nough said." He moved to the fridge, took out the sliced roast beef and set it next to the bread loaf. He glanced at Sarah. "Falling down on your motherly duties," he said with more than a little mockery. Sarah stayed where she was.

"You're perfectly capable of making a sandwich," she said mildly. "Just don't use all the lunch meat in one go. You might try adding some lettuce and a little mustard to that pile of dead cow, you know."

"Blasphemer. My wife makes me eat plenty of green stuff. By that I mean she leaves everything in the fridge to get moldy." He hacked two thick slices off the loaf, dumped a huge stack of roast beef atop one slice, slapped the other in place and headed for his backpack. With a sigh Sarah got to her feet. She stopped him before he could reach his destination, extracted the sandwich from his hand and returned it to the counter, to slip it into a plastic bag. She took an apple and a banana from the bowl on the counter, added two bags of chips, filled another sandwich bag with some cookies, put everything in a paper sack, and handed it to him.

"Have a cup of coffee with us," she said quietly. Greg accepted the sack and placed it in his backpack, then went to the coffeepot.

"Today's baking better be worth my time," he said with his back to them as he chose a mug and filled it.

"A touch more raisins in the next batch," Gordon said, and chuckled when Sarah gave him a fake glare. "Well you _were_ thinking it, my dear. I could almost see you making an addendum in the recipe card you have in your head."

Greg dumped two heaping spoonsful of sugar in his mug, gave it a desultory stir and came to the table. He plunked into a chair and grabbed a tea cake off the plate. Eyes on Gordon, he took a huge bite, making hideous noises while doing so, swallowed and slugged down some coffee. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"One of these days you're gonna choke and make me Heimlich you," she said. "I really don't relish the thought of seeing my half-eaten baking fly across the room to decorate the wall, thank you very much."

Greg downed more coffee. "Hold me, squeeze me, baby," he said, and gave her an exaggerated wink. Sarah sighed.

"Brat." She glanced at Gordon and found he was shaking with silent laughter.

"Sarah my dear," he said after a few moments, "you'll forgive me if I say so, but the mother's curse is alive and well in your homestead."

Sarah's jaw dropped in shock at this outrageous betrayal. "_Hey!_" she spluttered. "I _never_ behaved like that!"

"Oho, revising personal history, are we?" Gordon sat up a bit. "Need I remind you of the day I entered the miniscule broom closet laughably known as my office, to find two of the anatomical displays from the biology department locked in conjugal embrace atop my desk blotter?"

Greg took another enormous bite of tea cake and settled back in his chair. "'sgood. Got more?" he asked through a mouthful of crumbs. Sarah felt her face grow warm.

"I—I didn't have anything to do with that," she said, though it was only a half-truth. She'd kept an eye on the corridor while fellow students did the dirty work.

Gordon ignored her feeble protest. "Oh my heavens, yes indeed I do, Gregory. Let us see . . . replacing my pipe tobacco with dried grass clippings dosed with molasses and cherry Kool-Aid, what a memorable discovery that was! Black pepper in my cuppa, always a favorite. And the time someone interlarded my lecture notes with selected passages from _The Story of O_ . . . such larks, I tell you."

"Base accusations," Sarah said with all the dignity she could muster—not much, under the circumstances. Her face was probably scarlet by now. "I would never behave that way."

"Says the woman who desecrated bicycles as a child," Greg said, and stuffed the last of the tea cake into his mouth. He eyed her with a grudging respect. Sarah resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"If you're done havin' your fun at my expense, I do have a list of chores waiting for me," she said, in an attempt to gather the tattered shreds of her dignity.

"Hoity-toity," Gordon said, smiling. "Hand over that list, find a box of bonbons and claim a spot on the sofa. I must keep my hand in during my time away from culinary hell."

Sarah's cheeks grew warm once more. "You don't have to do that," she said. Greg made a rude noise.

"Free help from one of the world's great chefs and you're turning it down. Typical," he said, and got to his feet. He filched two tea cakes from the plate and headed for the doorway. "Just let him help and shut up. I plan to kidnap him for band rehearsal this weekend so you'd better use him while he's available." He put a lascivious drawl on the last few words.

"I look forward to the abduction," Gordon said, eyes twinkling. "Off you both go. May your work day be a propitious and productive one, Doctor House."

"From your mouth to the lab's ears," Greg said. He glanced at Sarah, then away. "Tell him. Wifey says it's okay," he said, picked up his backpack, and headed off. Gordon gave Sarah a mildly inquiring look. She waited until Barbarella's throaty roar had begun to fade, then spoke.

"Before they got married, Greg and Roz decided not to have children. At the beginning of October, Roz found out she was pregnant."

"Ah," Gordon said. "Did she end the pregnancy?"

"She had a miscarriage." Sarah felt an echo of the profound sadness she'd known at the news. "Before it happened Roz was struggling with keeping her promise."

"Oh dear," Gordon said softly. He looked troubled. "For someone so straightforward in her dealings, that must have been a terrible dilemma. And for her husband as well."

Sarah nodded. "They're standing together, but they're both scared," she said. "At the moment Roz is spending more time here than usual. She needs people around right now. Greg's okay with it, but he's worried."

"Quite understandable, and very astute handling by both parties. I anticipate the prospect of the Houses company with pleasure." Gordon finished the last of his tea and stood, cup and plate in hand. "Now, off you go to rusticate in front of the telly while I look down this list of yours."

Fifteen minutes later Sarah found herself curled up on the couch, searching through the channels for something to watch. It felt odd to be doing this mid-morning, especially with so many chores . . . She looked up as Gordon came in, cup of tea in hand. He set it on the coffee table.

"I can sense your anxiety all the way into your lovely kitchen. My dear girl, we have plenty of time to accomplish everything you wish to have ready for your family and guests. You will enjoy your holiday far better if you're rested and chipper before we dive into the culinary depths, so to speak. Don't you agree?"

Sarah pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. "All right, I'm settled in. Happy now?"

Gordon tsked at her. "Crosspatch," he said mildly. "Which just proves my point, we can't lay it all at the door of those lovely auburn curls of yours. Rest up and in the afternoon we'll work on pie crust together. You shall divulge the secret of your lovely tender flake." He paused. "Good heavens, that should be a line in a cheap romance."

Despite herself Sarah giggled. Gordon smiled down at her. "Gotcha. Enjoy," he said with affection, and headed off to the kitchen. Sarah snuggled into the cushions and returned her attention to the tv. She found a movie on one of the higher channels and began to watch, let her thoughts drift as she did so, and eventually slid into sleep.

". . . Mom?"

Sarah opened one eye. Jason stood in front of the couch. He'd plainly just come in; he hadn't even dropped his backpack. There was a light dusting of snow on his coat.

"Hey," she said, and smiled. "You're home early."

"Half-day. Tomorrow too. Are you all right? Why is Doctor Wyatt in the kitchen making stuff?"

Sarah sat up. She patted the spot next to her. Jason dumped his backpack by the coffee table and took a seat. He looked anxious.

"Why are you out here?" he asked.

"It's called taking a nap," Sarah said wryly. She took Jason's gloved hand in both of hers. "I'm all right. Prof just thought it would be a good idea for me to get some rest. Lots to do in the next couple of days."

"I can help," Jason said at once. He hesitated. "Well—I'm not a very good cook yet but I can do other stuff."

"I know you can," Sarah said, touched by his earnestness. "You're learning to become an excellent cook, and you work hard on your chores. I'm really proud of you." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Jason rolled his eyes.

"_Mom_," he groaned, and she laughed.

"Yeah, all right. Let's go see what Gordon's up to."

They found him muttering over a stock pot, one of Sarah's aprons barely fitted around his tall form. He glanced at them when they entered, then took another look. "Jason? Good heavens, you've grown a head taller since I saw you last!" He set down the wooden spoon in his hand and turned to them, smiling. "And I hear from your father you're working hard on everything from math to saxophone lessons, that's simply brilliant! Well done, young man, well done!"

"Thank you, Doctor Wyatt," Jason said, clearly at a loss as to what he should do or say. Gordon chuckled.

"Now surely we needn't stand on such ceremony? If I'm allowed to call you Jason, you must call me Gordon." He turned back to the stock pot. "Now if someone could counsel me on what to add to this turkey stock, I'd be eternally grateful."

Jason fidgeted with the zipper of his coat. "What—what did you put in?" he asked in a small voice. Sarah hid a smile and said nothing.

"Well, let's see—I've got turkey necks and an onion, some garlic . . . but something seems to be missing." Gordon peered into the steaming depths and shook his head. Jason took a step forward.

"You could—you could add some herbs. Mom does," he said. "She grows her own and dries them in the back room."

Gordon's features brightened. "Herbs! Now why didn't I think of that? Jason, would you be so good as to stay and help? Your advice would be quite welcome."

"But you're a cook—I mean, a chef in a big restaurant in New York," Jason said. It wasn't an outright accusation of fraud, more like a statement of fact backed by a healthy skepticism. "How come you don't know about using herbs in stock?"

Gordon chuckled. "Ah, you caught me out," he said. "Forgive me for testing you, Jason. Would you believe me if I say I truly would like your assistance?"

Jason thought about it. "Okay," he said. "I can show you where everything is, and you can teach me how to make stock and other stuff."

"Now that is a bargain well offered, and accepted too." Gordon nodded. "Why don't you divest yourself of your scholarly accoutrements and have a spot of luncheon first? We'll get started afterward."

Jason looked at Sarah. "Is that okay with you, Mom?" he asked. Sarah heard the unspoken rider: _it's your kitchen and I'm your kid_.

"Absolutely," she said. "I get an afternoon off and the company of two handsome and intelligent men. The whole world would be jealous."

Gordon laughed. Jason gave her a long-suffering look, but she saw shy pride in his dark eyes. He unzipped his coat and headed to the living room.

"You'll join us for lunch, surely?" Gordon asked. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to make us a largish pile of what you Americans so charmingly call 'sammiches', with plenty of lettuce as well? And if Jason would slice two of those magnificent Gala apples for an accompaniment . . ."

Long after lunch was over and she'd returned to the couch, Sarah enjoyed the sound of teacher and student getting acquainted and even better, discovering they liked each other. She looked out the window, watched thick snow fall past the glass, and didn't mind at all.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews really rock my day! :)_**


	14. Chapter 14

**_(This chapter was a great joy to create. While I love writing in this 'verse at all times, there are moments that become treasured ones, and this chapter is just such a moment. Jason's rehearsal and audition is drawn from personal experience as an instrumental musician. I hope you enjoy the passages as much as I enjoyed writing them. Please do listen to the music too, if you're able. _**

**_Special thanks to flatpickluvr for suggesting 'Soul Sister' as a great chart for Jason to learn. -B)_**

_November 21st_

_12:30 p.m._

Jason navigated his way up the driveway through half-melted snow ruts and patches of loose gravel, and went around to the back door. He missed the freedom of riding his bike, but it was too treacherous now to do so; he couldn't afford to get anything like a broken rim or handlebars fixed, since he'd just spent all his allowance on a graphic novel and new reeds for his sax, and Mom and Dad had made it clear any damage caused by impulsive behavior or carelessness was his responsibility.

With a resigned sigh he entered the mudroom, dumped his backpack and saxophone case by the door to pick up later, and slipped out of his sneaks. At least now he had days off and even better, all his homework and extra credit work was done. He'd busted his butt in study hall and homeroom to get it all finished before the end of the day. That left a few chores and maybe, if he was lucky, more time in the kitchen with Gordon. Prof was proving not only as fine a resource for cooking knowledge as Mom, he was also just as fascinating to talk to. Jason had never been around anyone who had such an amazing abundance of knowledge on every conceivable subject, aside from House.

As Jason shucked off his coat he heard music coming from the kitchen—Fletcher Henderson's orchestra, a tune from the enormous collection Dad had shared with him after they'd discovered a mutual love of early jazz; Jason had several tracks with Coleman Hawkins solos memorized and had even tried to play along with the recordings. In secret of course—he was working hard to develop a consistent embouchure and keep his hands in proper position on the pearls so he wouldn't squeak or honk, and he still sounded really, _really_ bad sometimes, but slowly he was improving. And Dad had said if he made regular practice a habit, he'd find it got a little easier to play every day. That had kept him going when discouragement haunted his efforts.

When he came into the kitchen it was to find Gordon working with Mom on pie crusts. Both of them had obviously been at the task for some time; they both wore smears of flour here and there on their aprons.

"You really believe lard makes such a profound difference?" Gordon was saying.

"If you can find a high-quality leaf lard from pigs raised properly, yes," Mom said. "It's getting easier to find now that free-range farming is coming back." She turned a lump of dough out on the floured board and began to roll it. Jason admired her small, clever hands as they worked to create the light, thin crust for which she'd become famous in the village; her pies were much in demand for community dinners and at the food pantry. "It smells heavenly when it's baking and if you use a three-to-one ratio with cold butter, you'll get plenty of flavor without sacrificing the flakiness."

Jason stood in the doorway. He took in the sound of the sweet jazz filling the room along with the slanting sunshine, the smell of baking rolls and coffee, the two adults talking back and forth as they worked together. All this meant home now—as far outside the experience of the cold, filthy collection of empty rooms he'd lived in for his first twelve years as chalk was from cheese. Through his work with the therapist he knew now that the uncared-for shell of wood and broken drywall in which he'd been forced to exist had never been anything but makeshift shelter. This house, full of light and soft shadows, love, sometimes sadness and pain, and at the end of it all, acceptance—this house had become a true home for him; he claimed it as his, and reveled in the knowledge that his claim was acknowledged and accepted by the people who were his family now, too.

"Hey handsome boy!" Mom smiled at him. "Get changed and we'll have lunch, and then you can do some taste-testing if you're up for it."

Jason hurried off to his bedroom as fast as his legs could take him. Hunger made his belly rumble as he shucked off his good shirt and jeans and got into his Halo tee, a flannel and favorite worn Levi's. _Days off_, he thought, and couldn't help a little bounce at the happy thought. Mandy would come over later and they'd get to talk to Laynie about their research with the weather stations. And Dad would be home tonight; the band had a rehearsal and he'd get to sit in. This was gonna be a great weekend.

He ate two sandwiches and an enormous apple along with his glass of milk for lunch, and still had plenty of room for some pie filling. Just pumpkin and apple this year; they'd decided to give a big donation to the church food pantry instead of making a bunch of stuff for themselves. It was a family secret, though Mom had let Gordon in on it. Still, he was trustworthy—Jason had discovered that for himself during their first session in the kitchen.

Now he ate some apple filling and thought about the balance of flavors. In doing so he noted the music had changed, from Henderson to Oscar Peterson; relaxed and playful, it brightened the kitchen like a slanting beam of sunshine. "A little extra nutmeg," he said aloud. "And lemon juice. No, wait. A pinch of salt."

Gordon looked pleased. "Well done," he said.

"Jason's an excellent taste-tester," Mom said. "So's Mandy, but she has to limit her help to one item, especially if it's something sweet."

"Ah, striving to find balance and health. Always an excellent goal," Gordon said. "I'm quite delighted to hear she's found some success."

"I don't know what she's worried about," Jason said. He ate another bite of filling just because he could, though Mom sometimes scolded him for sticking the spoon back in without washing it. "She looks fine the way she is."

Mom glanced at Gordon. It wasn't secretive, more of an invitation to answer Jason. "You're quite right," Gordon said. He began to roll the pie crust around the pin, taking his time. "But I believe Amanda's efforts are a result of her own desire for change, dear boy. She doesn't feel comfortable with her weight or appearance."

"I don't want her to be all obsessed over how skinny she is," Jason said. "It's boring. A bunch of girls in our class are always talking about diets and yogurt and stupid sh—stuff like that."

"Well, do you think that's likely with Amanda?" Gordon draped the crust over the pie pan. "She seems quite a sensible young woman."

"Girls get weird over that kinda thing." Jason slid a sidelong look at his mother when he said it. He knew such blanket pronouncements usually didn't sit well with her. But this time she surprised him by offering a mild stare in return and nothing more.

"Some girls do, yes. But then some boys get weird over gaming, do they not?" Gordon observed. Jason blinked. Did the older man mean _him?_

"I _don't_. Get weird, I mean," he said, feeling defensive. Gordon began to trim the edges of the crust.

"Indeed. And I'd venture to say Amanda would give the same answer and feel just as you do in this moment. If I might offer a suggestion?"

"Okay," Jason said with some caution.

"Say nothing, only observe Amanda's behavior and conversation. After a certain length of time—this weekend, shall we say—gather your data, draw your conclusions, and see if they match your initial hypothesis." Gordon looked up to give him a brief but warm smile. "And I'll do the same. What say you? Agreed?"

"Yeah—um, yes, agreed," Jason said. Now this was something he could understand and work with. Gordon nodded. Mom raised her brows, but she stayed silent. Gordon glanced at her.

"Now now, Sarah," he said. "We shan't play pranks on Amanda's emotions in any way, as you well know. As it stands, perhaps we should ask a reassurance from you instead."

To Jason's interest Mom began to blush. She turned away and picked up the bowlful of pumpkin filling. "This needs a taste," she said, and put it down in front of Jason.

"Mom, are you okay?" He was worried at the deepening color in Mom's cheeks. Gordon chuckled.

"Your mother is quite all right, Jason. She's just remembering a most regrettable incident from her college days."

Jason looked at Mom. She glared at Gordon, but she was also trying not to smile. "Jerk," she said. "Rattin' me out again! I'm beginning to reconsider my invitation."

"Hah, base calumny. Have I ever said one single word about that event before this moment?" Gordon managed to look offended, though his gaze held considerable amusement. He took the bowl of apple pie filling, sprinkled it with a pinch of salt and grated a bit of nutmeg over it. "To cry '_J'accuse!__' _is beneath you, Sarah. My, my. Such ructions!" He began to stir the filling. Jason realized he was teasing Mom, and she was playing along. It was an old game with them, that was clear. His anxiety faded.

"What happened?" he asked, and tried to sound innocent. Mom gave him a level look.

"None of your beeswax," she said.

"Oh, come now. Surely you would permit me to divulge your antics purely as a cautionary tale." Gordon stole a slice of apple out of the filling and munched it with evident appreciation.

"I'm not saying another word," Mom said. She was bright red by now.

"Ah, so you leave the dirty work to me, do you? Very well." Gordon began to prick the bottom crust with a fork. "When your mother was much younger—"

"Hey!" Mom said, all indignation. "It wasn't _that_ long ago!"

"Over twenty years now, would you believe. Deary me, _tempus fugit_! Now as I was saying, when your mother was a fine young thing full of . . . shall we say, an impassioned outlook on life, she was the author of a truly inspired windup re: one of her fellow classmates. Apparently from all accounts, a certain young man had taken her out for dinner and dancing the previous evening and, to put it politely, pressed his advances—"

"Prof," Mom said in a warning tone. Jason rolled his eyes.

"_Mom_," he said with all the scorn he could muster, "I _am_ almost fourteen years old. I know what sex is."

"Well said, young man, well said." Gordon gave him an approving smile. Mom sighed.

"I stand corrected."

"Very gracious of you, to be sure. Now, to continue." Gordon began to arrange the filling in the pie pan. "Your mother's formidable ire was aroused by this lout's persistence in attempting to force his unwanted attentions on her admittedly charming person, so she decided to give her erstwhile date a taste of his own medicine. She arranged a clandestine meeting with a pair of colleagues and hired them to follow this miscreant about the campus and offer protestations of undying love in every public space available, and at all hours as well. I do believe a midnight serenade outside his dormitory lodgings was the culmination of the harassment, complete with guitar and flute."

Jason looked at his mother with renewed respect. "_Whoa_."

"Indeed. And even better, neither musician had ever played anything resembling an instrument in their respective lives." Gordon wet the rim of the bottom crust with a few drops of water.

"If you're going to do something you should go all the way, or why bother?" Mom sounded strange. Jason peered at her and saw she was struggling not to laugh. "He deserved it, and much more besides." She floured the rolling pin, rolled the crust onto it with one practiced movement, then handed it to Gordon. "Here, take it. If it's tough it'll be your fault for tellin' tales on me."

"Yes ma'am," he said meekly. He unrolled the crust atop the filling, going with care.

"So you punked this guy," Jason said, impressed. "Sick."

Gordon glanced up at him. "I believe the correct rejoinder is 'chronic'," he said. His eyes gleamed with amusement.

"It was mean," Mom said. She put another chunk of dough on the board. A few escaped curls sparked and glittered against the worn blue of her bandana. "But he deserved it."

"I concur," Gordon said. He picked up a knife and started to trim the crust.

"And yet I still ended up being lectured," Mom said. She gave Gordon a stern look. "You threatened to suspend me!"

"My beautiful girl of the auburn curls, what else could I do? Much as I secretly cheered you on, I had to abide by protocol. Surely even you must concede the point."

"Huh," Mom said, but she was smiling.

In due course the pumpkin pie was finished. Both it and the apple variety were placed on the lower rack in the oven to begin baking. Jason set to work on his main chore, bringing in firewood. He put on the old barn coat and gloves reserved for that purpose and went outside. It was a bright but chilly day; he enjoyed the watery sunshine as he put logs in the carry-all and took them into the mudroom. From there it was only a matter of distributing logs and splits to various rooms. He stacked up the hearth in the main room as well as the office and his own bedroom. He wasn't required to haul any upstairs, Dad usually handled that, but Jason took some to their bedroom and to Prof's as well. If he could manage it, he'd make sure the guest rooms had plenty of fuel too. Besides, he liked the idea of providing for everyone. It warmed him inside, even as the exercise heated him up on the outside.

After his stock-up duties were finished, Jason set some logs aside to split the next morning, then went inside and swept up the dirt trail in the mudroom. It was the work of only a minute or two to wash his hands and face, put on a thick sweatshirt, bundle into his coat, grab his sax and lesson music, and head off to the barn—his favorite place to practice. Out there he could squeak and honk and make all the mistakes he liked without an audience; while he knew no one would make fun of him, he still felt an intense shame at his lack of skill, though his band teacher told him he was gaining ground quickly.

The barn was cold, of course. He started a fire in the woodstove, using small kindling first to get it going faster. While it caught he set up his stand and chair, holding his hands to the flames now and then as the stove slowly began to heat.

Once or twice he glanced at the bed in the corner of the platform. His memories of the night of Roz's miscarriage still filled his mind. While they were painful and sad, he mainly felt those emotions _for_ her, not _because_ of her. He thought there might be something wrong with him for that, but he couldn't help it. Maybe it was because he'd seen his biological mom get beat up so much, he was used to it or something. Anyway, he'd talk with the therapist about it. She'd be honest with him; he liked that about her, she didn't treat him like a screwed-up, waste-of-time kid when he told her things he knew were really bad.

He turned away from the platform and opened the instrument case, found the reeds and chose the one he'd finally broken in. He put it in his mouth to moisten while he got out the mouthpiece. Once the reed was centered and the ligature tightened, he tested it, adjusted the position, set the mouthpiece in place, attached the neck to the body and turned on the little electronic tuner-metronome Dad had bought him. Tuning was tricky when he was out here because of the temperature fluctuations, but it was a small price to pay for the privacy he got in return. Eventually it would settle down, as long as it wasn't too windy or wet outside. Drafts always caused problems. The guys in the band complained about going flat when the wind and rain blew.

Though he would never admit it to anyone else, Jason liked this time to himself. It was just him and the music, with no one to interrupt or disturb his concentration. He began simple scales, working on his hand positions, chin down and bottom lip not too rolled in.

Fifteen minutes later the room was warmer and he was limbered up enough to start what Dad called 'wood-shed work'. Jason opened his music folder and took out his lesson, along with the other charts he was working on. After the exercises his teacher had assigned during their half hour session, his first priority had to be the stuff they were learning in band: three Christmas songs, all boring as hell but they were good for shaping up breath control and phrasing, if nothing else. He had a track he could play along with and after a few run-throughs on his own, he set up the playback. It took several tries to get the timing down, but he managed it and then made three more start-to-finish passes through each song. At the end of the last one he knew he'd be okay—his teacher would add some refinements and correct his mistakes but he had the basics down really well, as long as he continued to practice every day through the next three weeks to the concert.

Now he set the school stuff aside and took out the piece he'd really been looking forward to. A month ago Dad and House had given him the chart for a song called 'Soul Sister', a Dexter Gordon classic.

"Learn this, and either House or I will give you an audition," Dad had said. "If you got the chops, you can play it during the New Year's gig. But only if you work on it, make it sound good. No free rides just because you're my boy."

Jason put the music on the stand, but he didn't really need it now. He knew the basic melody just fine. The hard part would be the few bars of improvisation required in the simplified version Dad and House had supplied.

"You hear the tune in your head," House had said when Jason had dared to ask him about how to improvise. "Then you play around it." That wasn't much help, but Jason understood what he meant anyway.

So he went over the melody twice, then tried four bars of improv. It sounded terrible—forced and awkward, not loose and cool. He thought about it for a few minutes. Maybe he could listen to Dexter's improv, play some of it along with him and get ideas that way. He had the original track on his iPod . . .

He listened to it all the way through, fingering the melody silently and trying to find the right positions for the improvised section. Once or twice he kinda felt how Dexter was swinging it, but it was elusive, tough to pin down. But then maybe that was the problem—he was trying to chase a butterfly by wearing combat boots when he should be barefoot. The mental image struck him, made him crack up.

The next time around he did his best to relax and let the music move through him. It was really hard at first, but gradually he found his body swaying to the wide, loose beat. While he still had trouble getting the notes, it didn't matter so much now. He could hear the melody woven into the riffs and licks, and things were beginning to make sense.

Everything clicked on the fifth repetition. He felt his focus shift a little, enough to show him where his fingers needed to be just ahead of when he had to play. He could barely contain his excitement. He still sounded like shit, but it was slightly better than before. Now he was getting somewhere! Maybe he'd even pass the audition.

After the seventh run-through Jason allowed himself a little fist-pump out of sheer happiness. No one was there to see him after all, so why not? Then he reset the track and played it again. He even managed to get a couple of the simpler riffs to sound like something close to the original, but he made them his own with a couple of notes that weren't in Dexter's improv and still fit all the same. This was _fun_. No wonder Dad and the band often played far longer than their allotted time of two hours; there was an amazing sense of accomplishment in finding the notes and making them go together in new and unexpected ways, and sound good too.

When he was done he glanced at his watch and was surprised to find an hour and a half had gone by. The afternoon was already beginning to fade into early darkness; time to head for home. He wanted to stay and play just a little longer, but Mom would worry. Besides, Mandy was at the house now and they had a Skype call to Laynie scheduled in half an hour.

He was removing the reed when he heard a noise by the door. Someone stood there watching him; it was House. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. His blue eyes were intent. Jason gripped the mouthpiece. How long had the older man been there? He blushed to think House had heard him struggling, or even worse, seen him celebrating his one tiny little step forward.

For what seemed like forever House said nothing. Then he straightened slowly. "You're ready to audition. Be at the rehearsal tonight." And he was gone, slipping out of the barn in near-silence.

Three hours later Jason stood on the platform, trying hard not to clutch his instrument out of sheer terror. Dad sat in front of him, an impassive expression on his lean features.

"Ready?" he asked. Jason nodded, though it was a lie. House shifted on the piano bench just a bit so he could see Jason, then counted them off—and much to his astonishment Jason found after a measure or so he was playing along in all the right places. He began to enjoy himself, until he realized his improv solo was coming up. Panic seized him, but only for a few moments. He knew how to do this . . . relax, listen, let the music show him where to go . . . Gradually his fear eased. He heard the hesitation leave his notes and smiled inside. He _could_ do this! Now he just hoped it was good enough to pass the audition.

Much to his surprise, when the song ended he didn't want it to stop. It was even more fun playing with the band; this wasn't like school, where he was just another reed player in a section, fighting to hear himself over the cacaphony of honks and squawks and wrong notes or rhythms. He'd been very conscious of House sitting next to him at the piano, Singh behind him, Jay to his right; they'd worked together and included him. It was a taste of something he'd never realized until now that he wanted with everything in him, a desire equal to the one he harbored to become a doctor.

Silence fell. Jason waited anxiously. Was he in, or not?

"Well," Dad said. He blinked, cleared his throat and glanced at House. "I'd say that made the cut. What do you guys think?"

"Yeah," Jay said. He gave Jason a smile; his dark eyes held approval.

"Great chops," Singh said, and nodded. "I say yes."

Jason didn't dare look at House. He waited, sweating under his fake-cool façade, terrified of the answer.

"Not bad," House said at last. "Needs work if we're gonna do it for New Year's." He sat back a little. "You miss one rehearsal, you're cut. No excuses, no exceptions."

Jason blinked. "I'm—I'm in?" he said, and winced at how stupid he sounded.

"Hell yeah," Dad said with a grin. He glanced at House. "Someday we'll say we were present at the start of Jason Goldman's career."

"Someday we'll all be under the sod too," House said, but one corner of his mouth quirked up. "Let's run through it again. This time, don't rush your solo. Makes you sound nervous, and you're not nervous."

Jason swallowed. "Okay," he said, and felt happiness surge up inside him, sweet and bright. "Yeah, okay." He licked his lips, then gave Dad a wide smile before the music began again.

'_The Stampede', Fletcher Henderson and his Orchestra (Coleman Hawkins on solo tenor sax)_

'_Sometimes I'm Happy', __'C Jam Blues', __Oscar Peterson_

'_Soul Sister', Dexter Gordon_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like good tunes-you never get tired of them! :)_**


	15. Chapter 15

**_(The next chapter will continue with Thanksgiving Day and the long weekend, and then we'll move on to Christmas. Thanks to everyone who's favorited/followed my story, and also to those who've taken the time to post reviews. I'm deeply honored, as always. -B)_**

_November 22nd_

_6:30 a.m._

Roz stretched and yawned, moving with care so she wouldn't wake Greg, then climbed out of bed to claim the seat by the woodstove. Hellboy, who had been curled up at the foot of the bed, got up and claimed her spot next to Greg, settling into the pool of warmth she'd left behind. Roz smiled a little at this familiar tactic, sat down and stared out the window. Through the nearly-bare branches of the trees she could just see the back yard in the first soft grey tendrils of morning light. The house was quiet, but she knew the silence was deceptive. No doubt Sarah was up and tending to the second turkey, having roasted the first one overnight; it was more practical to do two small birds rather than one large one. She'd probably have Gene or Gordon putting the carved meat in a big pan to rest in a little stock while the drippings were collected to make gravy. Later it would be covered and kept in the oven to stay warm while other dishes were prepared. Right now however, the dining room table would be set up for a buffet-style breakfast, just as it was for other holidays; she could smell the coffee perking already, along with the tantalizing fragrance of bacon being fried. Roz had helped Sarah with the cinnamon rolls yesterday, while Gordon was out running errands and 'taking a tour of the environs', as he'd put it in his note.

A lone figure emerged into the back yard—Jason, wrapped in what Sarah called the 'chore coat', with a carryall full of firewood. Roz watched him with a small lightening of her heart. He'd been so kind to her . . . he was a good young man. She thought of the momentary vision at her bedside after the miscarriage, then returned the memory to the lockbox at the back of her mind.

The sun rose as it always did, bringing with it a pale, pearly morning. The sky was overcast, occasional rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds; they'd get snow later on. No doubt Jason and Mandy—and probably Gene and Doctor Wyatt and Sarah, and maybe even Greg—would go out to rebuild the half-melted fort in the back yard and do battle. The idea of going with them seemed distant, odd. A lot of things had felt that way lately, as if she was disconnected from everyday reality. Most of the time she could ignore it, but every now and then she wondered if this was the way things would be from now on—her standing at a distance, watching everyone else go about their lives.

"Should have known you'd be awake at the damn crack of dawn." Greg sat up in the bed, glowering at her. His bald spot was on display, and his love handles peeked out just above the sheets. Without a word Roz stood and went to him, sat down on the side opposite the sleeping cat. She slipped her arms around Greg's waist and lay her head on his shoulder. With a soft sigh Greg brought her closer.

"I don't know why you're worried," he said quietly. "You know everyone will spoil you rotten, especially the woman of the house."

Roz nodded. "I know."

Greg nuzzled her hair. "You said you wanted to stay here, but if you've changed your mind . . . if it isn't what you want—"

"No, I still want to." She stopped, went on. "On Saturday, after the rehearsal . . . I'd like to sleep in the barn. Sort of . . . reclaim it. It's our place, it needs to stay that way."

"You don't have to push so hard to get everything back to normal."

"Am I? Pushing, I mean?" Roz felt a faint surprise at his remark.

"Yes. It's annoying as hell." His lips brushed her temple. "If you don't want to go downstairs or spend the weekend here or anything else, if all you want to do is go home and eat cookies and watch those cheesy parades you love so much, that's what we'll do."

Roz couldn't help but smile just a little. "That's what _you'd_ like to do. Only instead of parades, it would be some pay-per-view movie full of guns, boobs and sex."

"If that's what I wanted I would have said so." He put a finger under her chin, tipped her face up to his. His blue eyes held anxiety, annoyance and tenderness. "For a woman you're a singularly honest person most of the time, so prove it. Do you want to do this or not?"

"I don't _know_," Roz said, and let her frustration show. "What's wrong with me? It's like I can't make up my mind anymore!"

Greg put his hand to her cheek. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a familiar caress. "That's an exaggeration," he said. "You're letting your emotions get the better of you."

"And you're not being fair," she muttered, but she couldn't help but agree. She used their closeness to try for some calm. The smell of him—musky unwashed male, a bit of dragon breath; the warmth of his body, his breathing and the faint sense of his pulse, all steadied her as much as the air she pulled into her lungs. "Yeah," she said after a moment.

"Yeah . . . what? Stay or go home?"

"Stay." She shivered a little when she said it, but it was right, she knew it. "Thanks."

"Huh." He stared down at her. The previous emotions in his gaze had been replaced by relief and a hint of respect under the irritation. Abruptly he let her go and got to his feet, grabbed his bathrobe and went downstairs to wash up.

After his return he took his time getting dressed, so much so that Roz dozed off. When he came to her she blinked awake, gave him a glance, then another. Her eyes widened a little.

"What?" he said, and sounded defensive.

"Nothing," she said. The dark blue crew sweater she'd bought him a couple of Christmases back truly did suit him. It was also making him uncomfortable, if the tense body posture and darting gaze was anything to go by.

Greg stared at a point somewhere to her left. "It was the only clean thing in the drawer so I grabbed it. Your turn, unless you want to make a unique fashion statement by attending the festivities in your jim-jams."

"You don't have to wear that," she said quietly. "I didn't know you don't like sweaters when I bought it for you. You've got a whole closet full of shirts and I just washed a bunch of your tees."

He glared at her. "I already have it on. Hell if I'm gonna run home now, it's too damn cold. You're the one who isn't ready. Get dressed." Then his throat moved, and Roz saw that he was as apprehensive as she was, but trying to show some support without actually tipping his hand. It was so typical of him, so clumsy and yet endearing, that she couldn't help but smile.

"What are you smirking at?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she said, and moved past him to the overnight bag on her side of the bed. As she went by she cupped his butt, gave it a pinch.

"Don't start anything you can't finish," he growled at her, but he was trying not to laugh, she could hear it in his voice.

"If you're gonna wear blue, I can't be held responsible for my actions," she said primly.

It didn't take long to get ready. She took a quick shower, put on the topaz-colored silk sweater and black velvet slacks Greg had given her on Valentine's Day, and enjoyed the feel of the rich fabrics lying soft against her skin. She chose a pair of thick socks and slippers in place of shoes; no one would care, and anyway they were more comfortable. Warmer, too.

Greg opened the door. "Let's go," he said, and she heard the thought behind it: _let's get this over with_.

"You don't have to stay with me all day," Roz said. "I'm not that fragile."

"Are you going to give me grief the entire time we're out? Because if so—" He stopped when she put her hand on his arm by way of apology. After a moment he turned away, but his free hand brushed over hers, his fingers clasping hers briefly. Without speaking he opened the door. Roz scooped Hellboy in her arms and let him climb on her shoulder, and they set off downstairs.

First to greet them was Gordon. His tall form was swathed in an apron, his thick hair falling down into his eyes, but he looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely.

"Good morning," he said, and placed a pot of coffee on the buffet table. "I believe the correct seasonal greeting is 'a very happy Thanksgiving'. You both look radiant, absolutely radiant!"

Roz glanced at Greg and bit her lip to hide a smile when she saw the scowl creasing his lean features. She moved ahead of him and offered her hand to Gordon. "Doctor Wyatt," she said. "Nice to see you, you look great."

"Oh, surely we needn't stand on such formality? We have met before, as you recall. Please do call me Gordon." He took her hand in his, and then to her astonishment he bowed over it. "Thank you for the compliment. You're most kind."

"Um . . . thanks, and you're welcome," Roz said, at a loss as to what to do. "You can call me Roz."

"Thank you, Roz. My pleasure," Gordon said. He straightened and surveyed her with twinkling eyes. "As you no doubt have already seen, several people are already in attendance and making the most of an excellent breakfast spread. Perhaps you and your estimable husband would care to join them."

"What about you?" she asked, concerned that he'd been on his feet most of the morning. "Have you had anything yourself? You must be hungry."

Gordon's expression softened. "Why, thank you, dear girl," he said, and his voice and words held genuine warmth. "Don't worry, your concern is quite unjustified. I'm about to take off my apron and join you all, so no worries."

"Oh, thank _God!_" Greg said loudly. "We were just so—so _distraught_!"

"Gregory," Gordon said. He looked amused. "Your comment is taken entirely in the spirit in which it was given. Breakfast awaits." He swept his arm in a graceful arc toward the doorway. "'Lay on, Macduff!'"

When they entered the dining room it was to find a number of people filling plates or sitting together talking. Sarah and Gene held court in one corner, with Jason and Mandy next to them. Chase was at the table piling food onto a plate. Roz couldn't blame him, it was a tempting selection: cinnamon rolls, bacon, cheesy egg casserole with peppers, home fries, and plenty of hot coffee, tea and cocoa to go with it.

Soon enough she and Greg had full plates and a place next to Gene and Sarah. Greg stuffed an enormous forkful of eggs into his mouth and reached out to snitch a fry from Sarah's plate. She gave his fingers a light smack, more a gesture than any serious attempt at discipline. Roz rolled her eyes. She extracted the fry from Greg's hand and put it on her own plate.

"Everything's all right," she said quietly. Greg swallowed and glanced at her—an assessing stare, with not a little anxiety behind it. Roz gave a mental sigh and looked down, what little appetite she had gone now. If this was how things were going to be all day long, maybe she'd made a mistake. Maybe it _would_ be better to go home, hole up and watch the parades. She wasn't up for a constant tug-of-war with Greg's worry goading his need to act out.

"At last, a place to sit! May I?" Gordon stood in front of her, beaming down from his great height. Roz gave the room a quick glance. There were empty seats everywhere. After a moment she nodded. "Thank you, my dear girl. So kind. What a delight to take a load off, as you Americans say, and dig into Sarah's excellent repast." He settled in next to her, picked up a piece of bacon and munched it, his expression blissful. "Fried pig meat, simply nothing like it." He looked at her, brows raised. "No hesitation in trying Sarah's cooking, surely?"

With some reluctance Roz took the cinnamon roll and bit into it. It was as good as she'd known it would be: soft, buttery, not too sweet, with a perfect hit of spice to tingle on her tongue. She enjoyed the taste without wanting more, but she also knew she needed to eat, if only to allay concern. So she took another bite.

"Well done," Gordon said softly. Greg stole a piece of bacon from her. When she turned to face him, he ate half the bacon, then offered her the remaining half. There was a challenge as well as a sort of anxious humor in his gaze. Roz leaned forward and plucked the bacon from his fingers, then ate it. Greg rolled his eyes but seemed to relax a bit.

It got a little easier after that. She managed a few bites of everything she'd selected, and washed it down with some cocoa boosted by a shot of coffee. Sitting between Greg and Gordon she felt protected, though she knew no one would hurt her here. She listened to the conversations around her and enjoyed the feeling of company—something she'd never really paid that much attention to before.

Afterward they went into the living room. Roz claimed an easy chair by the fire. As she settled in Hellboy hopped onto the back of the chair. He sniffed her hair, then patted her sweater.

"No claws," Roz warned him. He chirped at her and perched on her shoulder, making little noises of satisfaction as he claimed his place. She scratched his chin and he purred, to slowly sink down until he was curled up against her neck. His warmth felt familiar and comforting. She turned her gaze to the fire as Gene and Jason came in. Jason stopped by her chair and offered her the tv remote.

"Dad and I are gonna game for a while," he said. "Unless that'll bother you or something."

"You won't bother me at all, thanks," Roz said. She took the remote and set it aside for someone else to claim. "Greg will probably join you once he's done eating everything in sight." She twiddled the Heebster's ears and smiled when he purred loudly, his golden eyes closing in bliss.

"Later on after dinner, Mandy and I will talk to Laynie about the weather station project," Jason said. He blushed, but his dark eyes held equal parts shyness and determination. "If—if you want to join us that would be great."

"I'd like that," Roz said. "Thanks, Jason."

For a long time she watched everyone move around her in the unconscious dance of action and interaction; people gathered to talk and then went their separate ways. Occasionally someone stopped by her chair, exchanged a few words with her; while Greg didn't sit with her he was never far away, keeping an eye on her in his own fashion. It was pleasant without being demanding in the least; she sat surrounded by life, by talk and music and warmth, and let it fill the empty place inside her for a little while.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews are like stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy-essentials that make a turkey dinner taste even better! :)_**


	16. Chapter 16

_November 22nd_

_9:45 a.m._

Rob took a last bite of cinnamon roll, washed it down with a little coffee, then got to his feet. The dining area was deserted now, the buffet a shadow of its former self. He smiled at the sight and glanced at the kitchen. It was quiet for the moment, with both Sarah and Gordon undoubtedly upstairs resting with a cup of tea and a half-hour's grace before tackling the main meal.

He stacked some abandoned plates atop his own and carried them into the kitchen, pilfered a clean apron from the back of the tea-towel drawer, rolled up his sleeves both literally and in metaphor, and set to work. It didn't take long to bring in the remnants of breakfast. He saved the rolls and the few squares of casserole for future meals, and munched the last bacon strip himself while he dumped scraps into the oversized compost bucket Sarah had commandeered in place of the smaller one she normally used.

Once everything was put away, he rinsed dishes and utensils. The dishwasher was empty, so he filled it to capacity, added the soap and started the cycle. While it chugged into asthmatic action he returned to the dining room, wiped down the table and let it dry as he searched for the linens Sarah always used for holidays—white damask, ivory now with age and well cared-for. He didn't do more than put them out ready for use; his main focus was on getting the kitchen set up for round two.

There was a certain satisfaction in creating order out of mild chaos. He recognized the emotion, and the need driving it; he'd often done much the same thing when his mother was incapable of even standing up, much less attempting housework. Here and now however, it felt like he was helping out in his own home, earning his keep. For all intents and purposes it _was_ home—while he'd moved several months ago into a pleasant apartment on the edge of the village, he still hung out here quite a bit. Both Sarah and Gene had agreed to let him keep his key, and there were times when he stayed over on the weekends because it was convenient for the clinic, or to watch over Jason and Mandy if no other adults were available to do so. But if he was truthful, he just liked it because he felt as if he was part of a family for the first time in his life.

"So this is where all the ageing, failed seminarians end up when even the soup kitchens won't take them." House stood in the doorway watching him. Rob finished wiping down a counter and placed several spoons and a ladle in the sink. "Seriously—you do know you aren't required to do this. You're cheating Sarah out of her big chance to work until she drops."

"Have to clear my schedule of the good deed for the day." Rob cleaned up a spill of congealed fat. "Chandler call you yet?" He'd be going over after dinner to take his shift at the clinic.

House nodded. "Test results show nothing conclusive, so we'll have to try something else."

"Wouldn't hurt to go over the older labs from the patient's medical file," Rob said. "I keep thinking there's something in there we're missing."

"Feel free." House leaned against the doorjamb. "You talked with your other patient this morning. You know, the post-op one."

Rob slung a tea towel over his shoulder and put a dirty pot in the sink. He dumped some dish soap into it and ran a little hot water as well. "So I did."

"Quite the discussion."

"Just a few things to go over." Rob began to scrub the pot. "I'll let her give you the straight skinny."

"She hasn't been forthcoming." House's tone was neutral, but Rob heard the anxiety under it.

"Then I wouldn't worry." He pitched the water and rinsed the pot.

"Well, as long as _you_ say so . . ." House let the sentence trail off, his mockery plain. Rob didn't rise to the bait. Besides, he had an ace up his sleeve. He used it now.

"If I break confidentiality with her, you have no guarantee I won't do it to you too. Are you sure you want that?"

Silence greeted his question. When he looked, House was gone. Rob couldn't help but smile. "Didn't think so," he said under his breath, and put the pot in the dishrack.

He'd just put the second load in the dishwasher when Sarah came in. She went straight to him and gave him a gentle hug.

"You're a sweetie," she said, smiling. "Just for this I'll make you some cinnamon roll french toast tomorrow morning when you stop in. I'll go ahead and take over, I know you've got swing shift tonight. We'll have everything on the table before you go so you can have a good dinner, and take some with you for the clinic." She gave him a pat and let him go. "Why not crash on the couch? I think the boys are watching an action movie."

When he entered the living room it was to find everyone congregated around the big-screen tv, watching _The Guns of Navarone_. Well, nearly everyone; Roz was missing, along with Jason and Mandy.

"In the office talking with Laynie," Gene said. "Grab a seat."

Rob looked around the room. Gordon and Roz's grandfather Lou, who had arrived just after breakfast, sat side by side, absorbed in conversation. House watched them all from his usual place, the big easy chair by the fire where Roz had been curled up for most of the morning. Rob chose a spot on the couch and made himself comfortable, and kept House in his peripheral vision. Seeing his boss in a crew neck sweater and looking thoroughly domesticated was a sight he'd not see again for some time, if ever; he was going to enjoy every moment of it while he could.

"How old is this movie?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Older than you," House said. "Not enough tits and ass to keep you interested, no doubt."

"I'm not complaining," Rob said mildly. "Just never seen it before." He folded his arms behind his head and watched in silence for a few minutes. "The woman's lying," he said.

"You oughta know," House said. He leveled a piercing stare at Rob.

"She claims she's been tortured, but she won't show her scars. She doesn't strike me as the kind of woman to be so modest." Rob shrugged. "She's a spy. They should shoot her now to avoid future grief."

One corner of House's mouth quirked up just a bit. "Too bad Cameron can't hear you say that. Don't bother to watch the rest of it." There was a faint gleam of humor lurking in his gaze now. Gene glanced at Rob.

"You got all that just from one scene? No wonder you're working for him," he said. Rob chuckled and closed his eyes. He drifted off to the sound of House and Gene arguing a plot point.

He woke when someone tugged on his hair. "Dinner's ready. Mom says you snooze you lose," Jason said with a grin. Rob yawned and stretched, sat up.

"How'd the conference go?" he asked.

"It was cool. Laynie's gonna help us get some extra credit. She and Roz talked about ghostbusting too. Mom says we might get to go to Pennsylvania next year and check out some haunted houses." Jason paused. "How—how is Roz? Is she okay?"

Rob smiled. "She looks fine to me." He started for the dining room. Jason fell into step beside him.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes." Rob said nothing more. Jason glanced at him, then away.

"Yeah, okay. I get it. Sorry."

Rob snagged a lock of Jason's hair and tugged on it. "No worries. Don't know about you, but I'm ready to do in a drumstick or two."

Dinner was everything Rob knew it would be—turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and homemade cranberry sauce; steamed green beans, sweet potatoes with caramelized onions and garlic, fresh cornbread and butter and Sarah's homemade strawberry jam. There was a magnificent lasagna too, Lou's contribution to the feast along with the wine, and Anne Faust had brought sauteed winter greens and a bowl of homemade applesauce.

"This is cutting back?" Rob asked Sarah as everyone took their seats. She chuckled.

"No casseroles this year, we figured just plain vegetables was enough. Fewer desserts too. Most of the goodies went to the food pantry, but I kept a couple of pies and a cake for us. And a pie to take to the clinic." She fell silent as Gene tapped his wineglass gently with a fork.

"Before we tuck in, let's acknowledge the efforts of all our fine cooks in bringing this feast to the table." He raised his glass. Rob did the same, uncaring that his contained mineral water rather than wine. "We're blessed with talent and abundance, a great combination. And now, in the immortal words of my grandpa Goldman, "Good booze, good meat, good god, let's eat."

They passed the dishes and loaded their plates, talked and laughed and devoured the excellent food as if they'd never had breakfast at all. Rob enjoyed the convivial atmosphere, aware of Roz's rather silent presence on his right. He suspected she ate because it was easier to do so than deal with all the concern she'd get otherwise; still, she didn't pick at her food or push it around her plate. She took a taste of everything along with the wine, and replied when spoken to. House sat next to her, nearly as quiet as she was, but Rob had the sense they drew strength from each other in some indefinable way that went beyond being husband and wife. He was glad to see it; House had been alone for as long as Rob had known him, but for all his misanthropy he was not a man to do well on his own. He needed Roz as much as she needed him.

"You're thinkin' deep thoughts," Sarah said softly. Rob glanced at her.

"Cranberry sauce always makes me serious," he said, and she laughed. Roz looked at him, a slight smile playing over her lips. Across from them, Jason paused with an enormous forkful of mashed potatoes suspended in front of his mouth.

"Why's it do that?" he asked, genuinely curious. Rob leaned forward.

"It's the vitamin C," he said solemnly. Jason regarded him with obvious skepticism.

"I think you're bullshittin' me," he said, and sounded exactly like Gene. Sarah lowered her brows and sent her husband a look. Gene grinned at her and took a big chunk of cornbread, slathered it with jam, and ate half of it in one bite. But the best of all was Roz's chuckle, a soft little sound easily lost in the talk and laughter around them.

Time to leave came all too soon. Rob carried leftovers to the car and set the pumpkin pie, with its container of whipped cream, next to them on the back seat. Sarah hugged him and kissed his cheek.

"Have a good shift," she said. Her gaze held humor and affection. "Call if you need anything. Hope you're able to figure out what's going on with the patient."

"I think we're close." Rob studied her expression. "Are we still on for finding a tree tomorrow?"

Sarah nodded. She looked resigned, but there was little or none of the fear she'd exhibited in previous years. "We're on. Jason and Mandy are coming with us."

He left the house in the early darkness of a winter afternoon, the warm yellow light spilling from its windows more beautiful than any Christmas display.

The clinic was quiet. Chandler came into the kitchen as Rob set the leftovers on the counter. She ignored the pile of turkey and side dishes. "Patient's resting comfortably," she said.

"Good. Take half an hour and have some dinner." Rob placed the pie next to the turkey.

"I brought some dinner."

"It's Thanksgiving. You're allowed to eat something besides salad and yogurt one day out of the year." He took down a plate and rummaged in the utensil drawer for a fork, put them on the counter. "Self-denial only goes so far."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Chandler's gaze flickered over the food, then away.

"Whatever you think you're accomplishing by missing out on anything you might enjoy, I can tell you, it's not worth it." He opened the whipped cream container. "Sarah sent this over hoping you'd like it. Don't disappoint her, if that's how you have to justify having a taste."

He left her and checked on the patient, then stopped by McMurphy's desk. She looked up at him, her dark eyes gleaming with humor.

"She's a hard sell," she said softly. "Give her some time, she's got issues."

"Don't we all," Chase said. McMurphy sat back and offered him a sardonic smile.

"Some more than others." She glanced at the files tucked under his arm. "Something nagging at you?"

"Yeah. I think we're missing a clue along the way." He nodded at her half-eaten sandwich. "Avail yourself of goodies if you like. Sarah sent over a full dinner for whoever wants it."

"I won't say no to that." McMurphy stood, stretched a little. "If you want some help with those files, I'm bored enough to volunteer."

"Sounds good to me."

They found Chandler taking a plate of food from the microwave. She didn't look at them, just scuttled off to the conference room. McMurphy gave Rob a secret grin and, without speaking, took down a plate for herself. Rob stole a bit of whipped cream and plopped it atop his coffee before he too departed, in his case for the boss's office.

He spent the evening surrounded by files, one of House's vintage blues downloads playing softly, a slice of pumpkin pie at hand while he and McMurphy sorted through both the simple and complex truths of test results. By the end of his shift he had a better idea of what was missing, but still no hard evidence to support his intuition.

"Nothing we can do about it until the morning, but I'd like to schedule another round of bloodwork." Rob set his pen aside and cracked his knuckles. McMurphy nodded.

"I'll get it taken care of." She looked up at Singh came in, yawning. "Too much turkey?"

"Too much of everything, but I've still got room for Sarah's pie." Singh came to stand by Rob. "Snipe hunting, I take it."

"The clue's there, I just can't see it." Rob rubbed his eyes. "Sleeping on it might help."

"All those sharp corners would poke you in the ribs," McMurphy said. "Go home, get some rest. Have pie for breakfast. It might inspire you."

It was a short drive to his place. Rob negotiated the roads with care and watched snow fall as he waited at the village's one and only stoplight. He had the weekend off, though it was likely he'd be called in to consult or go over lab results or discuss the case at a ddx; he didn't mind, it was just how the work was set up, and anyway he was used to it from his days at PPTH.

He thought about House and Roz as he drove down the quiet street. She'd come through the surgery just fine, with no physical harm done to her, but her mental and emotional state was quite another matter. And yet House hadn't abandoned her or given in to his own fears. He was worried enough to risk Rob revealing their brief, awkward discussion about a vasectomy . . . very telling.

Rob pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. He sat there for a moment with the engine idling, then shut it off and went into the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like a big slice of pumpkin pie for breakfast-just delicious :)**_


	17. Chapter 17

**_(It was difficult to finish this chapter when the news came in from Connecticut on Friday. Then writing it became a place of refuge. _**

**_This chapter is dedicated to the teachers and children of the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. We hold all of you in our hearts and remember the beauty and innocence of those whose lives were taken. -B)_**

_November 24th_

_9 a.m._

"_C'mon_, Mom! If we don't leave now all the good trees will be gone!"

Sarah sighed and picked up her empty mug. "I'll be right there!" she called, and got to her feet. Gene gave her a look full of humor and a little sympathy. He stood as well.

"I'll hold your hand if it'll help any," he said. "Too bad Rob couldn't come with us, he's a good buffer for youthful enthusiasm."

"He'll have his hands full coping with Greg and working on another round of tests." She reached out and clasped his fingers. "Let's go. If we aren't at the door in five minutes, our kid will take the truck himself."

In short order they were crammed into Minnie Lou, headed down the road into the village. The day was overcast, with short bursts of snow flurries now and then. Jason said little, but it was clear he was excited. One knobby knee bounced up and down while he stared out the window, his hands knotted together. Sarah watched him and realized he sat as tall as she did. _Growing up so fast_, she thought. The knowledge made her both proud and sad. She sometimes struggled with resentment at the fact that his childhood years had been wasted on people who hadn't treasured them; at least he was where he needed to be now.

The village was just beginning to show signs of activity when Gene pulled into a parking spot next to the temporary lot set up on the common. "We'll head over to Rick's for some hot cocoa and a treat after we're done," he said, and turned off the engine. "Mom gets final say on the tree, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Mandy and Mrs. Faust said they'd meet us at the entrance," Jason said. "They're looking for a tree too." He glanced at Sarah. "You could talk to her while Dad and I find one, if you want."

"Thanks, but I kinda need to do this," Sarah said. She smiled at Jason. "If you want to help Dad and me, that's great. If not, that's okay too."

They hopped out into a swirl of flakes just as Anne and Mandy pulled into the parking lot. Jason's face brightened. He looked at Sarah. She nodded, watching as he took off, legs pumping.

"He's growin' up so fast," Gene said softly. Sarah reached for his hand, held it tight.

Eventually they began the search. The sheer number of trees was overwhelming, even though it was a small lot. Still, while she wasn't exactly enjoying the task, she didn't fear it either—a definite improvement over past years.

"The aisle for the tall ones is back here," Jason said. He hesitated. "Could I—" He stopped.

"Go on," Gene said. His green eyes held a twinkle of humor. Jason fidgeted.

"Could I have a little tree in my room?"

Sarah glanced at Gene. _Okay by me_, his gaze said. She nodded.

"All right."

Jason shifted his feet. "We'll need to get a stand," he said, staring down at his boots.

"You know, you're right," Gene said, straight-faced. "Maybe while they're bundling everything up and the women go over to the bakery, we could stop in and pick one up."

_Oho, I get it._ Sarah hid a smile. "That's an excellent idea. You could meet us at Rick's when you're done."

"Yeah." The relief in Jason's voice was palpable. Gene squeezed her hand gently.

"Let's get crackin', then. Lots to do," he said, and the search was on.

Ten minutes later, Sarah had to admit she was no closer to a choice than she had been when she'd walked in. "Maybe I should look at them again while you two choose Jason's tree," she said.

"You're really okay with that?" Gene said quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just too much to take in, that's all." She let go of his hand with mild reluctance. "If I find something I'll come and get you."

Gene gave her an assessing look. "Okay," he said. "C'mon Jay, let's take a look at those little ones on the other side of the lot."

Once they were gone Sarah moved slowly down the aisle. She trailed her mittened hand lightly over the branches as she walked, and took in the sharp clean smell of snow and pine. She could hear Mandy and Anne talking a short distance away, their laughter and enjoyment soothing; Gene and Jason were audible too. But it didn't solve her problem. What tree should she choose?

Five minutes later and she was about to resort to 'eenie meenie chili beanie' when she turned to go down an aisle and found a tree propped up in a corner. It was very plainly not one of the flocked, well-manicured offerings; it had large gaps between its branches, and a big flat spot on the side against the fence. Sarah reached in and brought it upright. At least it was straight, and the tips of each branch curved in a graceful arc that made up for some of the sparseness.

"Hey guys, I think I found it!" she called.

Jason did not approve. "It's ugly," he said, his tone blunt. "It's got big holes and the other side is all flat."

Gene examined it with care. "It's fresher than the others," he said. "It's been cut down recently. Let's ask the seller."

"This ain't one 'a them farm trees," the older man told them. "Some woman brought it in, said she needed some money for her kids Christmas presents and this was all she had to sell, so I bought it. Not good for much more than kindlin'."

"I'd like it," Sarah said. Jason rolled his eyes.

"You have to rescue _trees_ now too?" he said, quite plainly disgusted. Gene chuckled.

"Your mother has a soft heart for any creature in need, and that includes the Standing People," he said. "We did agree it was her choice."

"It's stupid-looking," Jason muttered, but he fell silent when Anne and Mandy came around the corner.

"Well, I haven't seen a tree like that in years!" Anne's wide smile brightened the whole lot. "When I was a girl, our dad would go out in the woods and find us something like this."

"It's not very pretty," Mandy said, sounding doubtful.

"You're just used to the commercial trees," Anne said. "On the farms they shape them as they grow so they don't have gaps or flat spots. But we really didn't care about that, we were just glad to have a tree." She gave Sarah a warm smile, her grey eyes sparkling. "Besides, there's more room to hang ornaments when the branches are farther apart. You can even put little presents in the empty spaces. I always looked forward to finding surprises that way."

"That settles it then," Gene said, and turned to the seller. "Let's go talk about price." He led the man off to the side. Sarah glanced at Jason. He stared at the ground now, his arms folded.

"Did you find a tree for your room?" she asked. He shook his head. "How about we all look for it? Unless you want to choose one by yourself," she said gently. Jason lifted his head. He glared at her, then stomped off. Mandy watched him, her disapproval plain.

"He's being a jerk," she said. Sarah chuckled.

"Actually it's a very good sign," she said. "So ladies, did you find one for yourselves?"

In due time the trees had been bundled and secured in the flatbed; the Fausts tree as well, they'd drop it off on the way home. Gene and Jason headed for the feed store while the women made their way to the bakery.

"Do they have any sugar-free stuff?" Mandy wanted to know. She looked charming in her mulberry-colored knitted cap and dark blue coat, her cheeks pink with exertion and excitement.

"They don't," Sarah said. "Why not have a cup of tea with me instead of cocoa? That way we can split one of Rick's big chocolate croissants and not go overboard with the sugar."

Mandy turned to Anne. "Would that be okay?" she asked. Anne nodded and looked pleased.

"That's sensible," she said. "I'll do it too."

It felt good to walk into the warmth and fragrance of the bakery. Christmas music filled the air—the Ronettes, Sarah noted, and enjoyed Ronnie's sweet voice. Rick was behind the counter as usual, bringing in a rack of cherry danish. "Hey," he said, and gave them a cheerful grin. "Good morning, ladies! What can I do for you?"

They settled at a table by the window with their cups of tea and the croissants, along with several fresh danish for the men when they returned.

"Are you ready for Christmas?" Sarah added a little milk to her tea.

"Just about," Anne said. "We've both got some shopping to do still, but I think the big-ticket items are taken care of."

"Yeah," Mandy said. She took a bite of croissant and savored it. "Mmm . . . this is really good. All I have left is a secret Santa gift to get for school." She looked both apprehensive and elated. Sarah guessed she'd somehow drawn Jason's name. "Doctor Goldman, what would you buy for someone who doesn't really need anything?"

"Get him a credit at the library for the book sale shelf," Sarah said, and laughed when Mandy showed her surprise. "He'll love it."

"Okay, it's Jason," Mandy said. The unconscious tenderness in the way she said his name told Sarah everything she needed to know about their relationship. "Thanks, I'll talk to the librarian on Monday." She stirred her tea and took out the teabag. "I'm sorry he was such a jerk. He's not usually."

"You're talking to his mom, honey," Anne said mildly. "She knows him pretty well."

"Yeah, but I see him during the day when he's away from home, and he's the same way at school as he is with his parents. Some kids aren't."

"I'm really glad to know that, Amanda," Sarah said, impressed by the insight behind the observation. "Don't worry about him being a jerk. I think it's more that he and I have a difference of opinion. We'll work it out."

Mandy's face cleared. "Good," she said. "He's not so bad, he just gets pig-headed sometimes like boys do." She sipped her tea. Sarah ate some croissant and avoided Anne's gaze.

"Yes," she said. "Since you spend a lot of time with him during the day, maybe you have some ideas on what kind of stocking stuffers I could get for him."

"Oh sure, that's easy," Mandy said. "Flash drives, he always needs more. And new ear buds for his iPod, I think he broke his old pair again."

"Let me write this down," Sarah said. She dug in her purse and got out a banking envelope and a pen, to find Mandy staring at her in astonishment.

"Why don't you just put it in your phone?"

"Because I'm a relic from a bygone age," Sarah said. "Okay, let's start again—flash drives . . . what size would you recommend?"

They were on their second cups of tea when the men came in on a flurry of snow. Jason looked better. He shot a glance at Sarah, compounded of equal parts annoyance and worry. She smiled at him and he turned away, but not before she saw a flash of relief cross his features.

"Got the stand," Gene said, and blew on his fingers. "I'm buyin' the biggest coffee Rick's got. It's cold as all get out today." He looked over the table. "Anyone need more tea?"

Soon enough he and Jason sat with them, munching danish as if they'd hadn't eaten for days. "We'll be decorating tomorrow once the tree's had a chance to warm up and spread out," Gene said to Anne. "You and Amanda are more than welcome to come over and help, we'd enjoy your company."

"Thank you, we'd like that," Anne said with a smile.

"Would pizza and salad be okay?" Sarah asked Mandy.

"If Poppi Lou could make a thin crust one with lots of veggies . . ." Mandy said slowly.

"I have kitchen privileges," Sarah said. "Thin crust with vegetables, no problem. We'll get _antipasto_ too."

The talk became more general after that—school, work, holiday plans. "We're going to Grandpa Faust's house in Albany for Christmas," Mandy said. "But we'll be back for the New Year's party. We don't want to miss that."

"Glad to hear it," Gene said with a smile. "It's gonna be a special night." He ruffled Jason's hair.

"_Dad!_" Jason squirmed, but it was plain he was pleased.

At last it was time to go. Sarah bought a dozen danish to take back to the house, and another dozen for the clinic.

"I can take them in, I'm working tonight," Anne said when they stopped by her house to drop off the tree she'd chosen with Mandy. "Thanks for all your help."

The ride home was a quiet one. Jason stared out the window, but he appeared to be a bit more relaxed . . . until Gene spoke.

"I talked with the seller. He gave me the name of the woman who sold him our tree. She's a single mom and has two young kids. They live a mile or so from town. I think I've seen her at the food pantry a couple of times, she's looking for work."

"Two little ones and no job . . . that's a really tough spot to be in," Sarah said. "What can we do to help?"

"Greg says McMurphy's been bugging him about finding someone to do housecleaning and light maintenance at the clinic." Gene negotiated the lane with care; enough snow had fallen to make the roads slippery. "We could have a board meeting, see if it's feasible to hire her on at least part-time."

"That would mean some money for necessities if nothing else," Sarah said. "What about the children? Does she—" She stopped when Jason broke into the conversation.

"Do you have to do that? Try to—to fix everything? Because it's _stupid_." His voice held a wealth of resentment. For a moment no one spoke.

"You have a difference of opinion with us, okay. We'll talk about it when we get home," Gene said quietly.

"Why not right now?"

"Your mother's rule is no arguments or heated discussions at the table. Mine is none in the car. Or truck, as the case may be." Gene pulled Minnie into the drive. "Besides, we're home now. Let's get the trees unloaded, and then we'll talk."

Jason said nothing more, but the mutinous set of his jaw indicated his mood. He hopped out of the truck the moment it stopped, and clambered into the flatbed. Gene set the brake, shut off the engine and sat for a moment.

"This is a good sign," Sarah said once more. "He's secure enough now to test limits, push against them, let us know what he's really thinking. That means we're doing something right."

Gene sighed softly. "Yeah." He leaned over and kissed her, a swift, warm touch of his lips. "Good to know we're givin' him the chance to be a typical teen."

"We'll survive. So will he." She returned his kiss. "Let's go before he burns a hole through the back window with that glare he's got goin' on."

She went inside as her men worked to get the trees out of the truck—and to sneak in the presents they'd bought. Gordon emerged from the office as she came in the door covered with snow. "Heavens, you look suitably wintry! I take it the hunt went well?"

"I'll answer with a qualified yes," Sarah said. She set the box of danish on the hall table and unbuttoned her coat. "We have a clash of philosophies to deal with at the moment."

"Oh dear." Gordon came to take her coat. "Might I be of assistance?"

"We're about to hold a family meeting and I think it should just be us, so someone won't feel like all the adults are ganging up on him." Sarah watched him hang up her coat in the closet. "But later on, that someone might need a listening ear from a neutral party."

"Indeed. Well then, I do believe I'll avail myself of some victuals to bolster my fortitude and return to the study." Gordon took the box of danish and disappeared into the kitchen.

Soon enough both trees were in the house, along with a sullen, silent teenager. "We'll get everything set up shortly," Gene said. "Right now, let's talk." He claimed an easy chair. "Have a seat."

Sarah made sure she took a chair at an angle to Gene's. She didn't want Jason to feel intimidated at the sight of two parents side by side. Jason plopped down on the couch, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

"We want you to know that you're not in trouble and we're not angry about what you said," Sarah began. She kept her voice relaxed and quiet. "We'd like to know more, though. Will you tell us what you meant?"

Jason stared at the floor. The same knee bounced in a nervous tattoo as he said nothing.

"I think you have a lot more to say," Gene said mildly. "Here's your chance to say it. We're listening."

Jason didn't answer. Sarah leaned forward a bit. "Why do you think it's stupid to help other people?" She knew it was a provocative question, but for that reason it needed to be asked.

"I don't know."

"I think you do," Gene said. "Please tell us."

"What's the point?" Jason lifted his head. His gaze was stormy, his expression defiant. "You'll just keep doing it no matter what I say!"

"Why do you dislike our helping others?" Sarah had a fairly good idea of the reason why he felt this way, but wasn't sure Jason understood it, or that he could articulate it if he did know.

"It's embarrassing." His cheeks were red now. "It's . . . it's dumb. You can't fix everything!"

"That's true," Gene said. "What we do here is like offering a few drops of water to a very large and very dry desert, hoping something will grow. It probably doesn't make that much difference in the larger scheme of things."

Jason didn't say anything, but his defiance faded a bit. "So why do it?"

"Why do you think we do it?" Sarah asked softly. Jason shrugged.

"I don't know."

"Are you sure?" Gene said. "Think about it. Take your time. It's okay to say whatever comes up. We're not here to punish you, Jay. We're not mad at you. We want to know what you're thinking and feeling, but we need you to talk to us."

Sarah was pleased to see Jason relax a little more. "Okay," he said slowly. "Well . . . it seems like you take in anyone who needs help. You just—do it all the time, like it's some kind of stupid job someone stuck you with and you have to do it or you'll get in trouble. Like you feel guilty for having so much."

"Is there more to it?" she prompted after a few moments silence. Jason hesitated, but said nothing. Sarah waited, but he didn't respond.

"All right," Gene said when the silence lengthened. "I guess it does look like we're a couple of do-gooders who think we have to be charitable. We don't feel that way, though. Your mom and I enjoy helping other people. We both grew up in households where things were tough, so we know what it's like to do without basics. I make a pretty good living at what I do, and when your mom gets her practice up and running eventually, so will she. So we like to share what we have when we can." He reached out and took Sarah's hand. "A wise man once told both of us that when something bad happens or people are in trouble, to look for the helpers, and if we could, to be helpers ourselves."

"That's so corny," Jason said under his breath.

"Yes, it is," Sarah said. "Cut us a little slack, honey. We're old people who have weird ideas about how to be cool."

The corner of Jason's mouth quirked up before he resumed his scowl. "So you're just gonna keep doing this," he said.

"I'm afraid so," Sarah said gently. "You don't have to participate, we leave that choice up to you. But we're not going to stop being helpers. It means too much to both Dad and me."

Without speaking Jason got up and stalked off toward the kitchen; a moment later they heard the back door bang shut. Gene gave her hand a squeeze. "Not so bad," he said.

"That was round one," Sarah said. "There's more to come. He has to work things out for himself. Then, if we're lucky, he'll come back and talk with us about it."

They set up the big tree in the spot she'd cleared. "Y'know, it really is a nice little tree, It just needs some help," Gene said, and ducked when Sarah thumped his head with her knuckles.

"I am _not_ Charlie Brown and I do _not_ rescue trees," she said hotly, trying not to laugh. "This one just—just looked lonely."

"And thus my point is proved," Gene said in a solemn tone, and took off when Sarah advanced on him. He got halfway up the stairs before she tackled him. "OW! Sarah Jane Corbett! You're killin' me!"

They ended up sliding down to the bottom of the staircase, where they exchanged a kiss. "Hope you're happy now," Gene said when it ended. "I'll be in traction for weeks. Not to mention rug burns."

"Shut up, old man," Sarah laughed. She tucked a thick lock of dark hair back from his forehead. "We haven't had rug burns in quite a while. Maybe we should remedy that later tonight."

"After rehearsal," Gene said. He kissed her, a brush of his lips over hers. "Coming with?"

"Of course. I wouldn't miss this for anything." Sarah glanced at Jason's bedroom door. "Why don't we set up his tree and leave it for him to bring in?"

"Needs to have the end re-cut so it'll take in more water." Gene gave her a pointed look, his eyes bright with amusement. "Can't go anywhere, you know. You're sittin' on top of me."

"Gee, so I am." Sarah stole another kiss. "Guess we should get up now," she whispered.

"Guess we should." Neither of them moved. "C'mon, Sare. The damn stair's diggin' into my back. On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three."

"I got nothin'," Sarah said several moments later. "How about rock-paper-scissors?"

A loud stage cough sounded from a few feet away. Gordon stood with arms folded, a stern look plastered over his amiable features. "You're blocking access to the second floor," he said. "As adventurous as it might be to navigate around the two of you, I say nay."

A bit sheepish, they got to their feet. "You weigh a ton," Gene informed Sarah, and took off when she reached out to yank down his jeans.

The short winter day wound to its close. They had leftover lasagna for dinner, a nice antidote for turkey fatigue. Jason spoke little, but Sarah noticed he paid attention to what the adults said as he ate. His anxiety was obvious. She made sure he was included in the conversation, and had the satisfaction of seeing his worry slowly fade somewhat.

"Rehearsal tonight," Gene said as they sat around the table with the last of a box of chocolates and the wine Lou had brought for Thanksgiving—an excellent peppery Zinfandel for which Sarah had an immense liking. "Been practicing?"

Jason nodded and darted a look at Sarah. She interpreted it as a question: _are you coming with us?_

"I'd like to be there," she said. "If it's okay with you."

"I also would like to attend," Gordon said. He raised his brows. "What say you, Jason?"

"Um . . . yeah, okay. You can both come," Jason said. He blushed and picked up his plate. "Guess we should get going. We need to build a fire and get the barn warmed up before everyone gets there."

They elected to walk. It was a snowy night; fat flakes swirled past them into the darkness. Despite her warm coat Sarah shivered.

"You okay?" Gene asked softly. She nodded. "Were you able to set things up for Greg and Roz yesterday?"

"Yes, everything's ready." She'd gone to the big flea market two towns over a few days ago, and found a beautiful old quilt to replace the ruined comforter. It was a double wedding ring pattern, its colors faded but still lovely. She'd bought new sheets too, washed them and laid them up with lavender from her garden, and added a few pillows and blankets as well. "I hope it isn't too soon for them."

"Me too. At least they both know they can come over to the house if it's too much for them." Gene dug his key out of his pocket as they stopped at the door. Sarah caught a glimpse of Jason's face, saw the troubled look there; he'd probably heard at least part of their conversation. She said nothing however, just followed Gene into the barn.

The band members arrived one by one. Greg was the last to arrive. Roz was with him. She looked a little pale, but when she saw Sarah and Gordon she seemed glad to find them there. She sat between them in the rump-sprung old lawn chairs Gene had set up by the woodstove, her eyes on Greg as he plugged in the keyboard and put his guitar within easy reach. He occasionally looked at Roz, his gaze searching.

"He's worried about us being here," Roz said softly to Sarah. "I'm okay with it but he's afraid for me."

Any chance Sarah might have had to reply was lost when the band started tuning, so she just put her hand on Roz's shoulder and rubbed gently.

It was actually pleasant to sit in the pool of warmth provided by the stove, listening to the guys work on their playlist for the Christmas party. At one point Gordon was invited to sit in. He accepted with an eagerness that made Sarah smile. She knew he was dying to get his hands on Gene's Gretsch. He did the privilege full justice, earning him an earful of friendly jibes and catcalls from the band, which he returned with equal measure. Sarah was delighted to hear Roz giggling; Greg heard her too, if the small smile that appeared for a moment or two was anything to go by.

At last it was Jason's turn. He'd been quietly warming up while everyone enjoyed a ten minute break; now he took his place between Gene and Greg and looked so nervous Sarah's heart ached for him. When he faced her she gave him a slight smile and couldn't help but be amused when he scowled in return. Parental favoritism was quite plainly _not_ welcome.

After a false start, they settled into the song. It took Jason another measure to calm down, but when he did, the result was amazing, even to the ears of a loving mother. It was clear he'd been practicing quite a bit; his tone was clear and sweet, and he swung the notes with an ease that bespoke plenty of thought and experiment. The guys watched him, taking their cues from his body language. When their solos came up they kept them simple and short, a good match for Jason's current abilities; it was more than obvious they were enjoying themselves. At the end Roz got to her feet, with Sarah right beside her. Along with the band, they clapped and whistled while Jason blushed beet-red, his expression one of mingled delight and mortification.

"Way to go Jason!" Roz yelled.

"That's my boy!" Sarah was not to be outdone. Roz grinned at her, green eyes sparkling.

"You've got your own cheering section," Gordon said on a laugh. "An excellent way to start your career, Jason."

"Need to work on the beginning," Greg said, but even he was pleased.

When the rehearsal ended they left Roz and Greg with a few quiet words, and walked back under starry skies. The air was colder now, drier. Sarah looked up at the diamonds scattered across black velvet and felt her heart catch. She might never be reconciled to cold weather completely, but there were moments when even she could appreciate the beauty of the season.

"Mom?" Jason sounded a little worried. Sarah realized he'd spoken twice.

"Sorry," she said. "Daydreaming. What's up, sweetheart?"

"What did you really think of my solo? Don't lie just to be nice," he said sternly.

"Well," she said with care, "I think it needs a little work at the start, but otherwise it's great. You've practiced hard and it really shows. You sound fantastic."

Jason came closer. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," she said. "I can't wait for you to learn more charts. You're gonna add such a great sound to the band, you'll be a regular member in no time at all."

"Yup," Gene said. "Work hard and we'll add you in, guaranteed. Greg and I both agree."

"Wicked," Jason said. He moved closer to Sarah. "I'd like both of you to help me decorate my tree."

It was a silent apology, and a very handsome one too given the circumstances. "Thank you," Sarah said. "We'd really like that. Will you help us with the big tree tomorrow too?"

"Yeah, I will." Jason took the spot between her and Gene. "We're gonna have more pizza than just that thin crust stuff Mandy was talking about this afternoon, right?"

"Don't worry, I put in a request for the hand-tossed kind," Gene said.

"Indeed," Gordon said. "I voted for hand-tossed as well. And speaking of hand-tossed . . ." He launched at snowball at Jason and got him right in the chest, then took off down the lane.

"_Hey!_" Jason handed Sarah his saxophone case and sprinted after him. Sarah laughed as Gene turned to her, leaned in for a kiss, shrugged and ran. She watched the snowballs fly, heard the shouts and laughter, and hugged the case to her. _Another moment of the season,_ she thought, and followed them home.

'_Winter Wonderland', the Ronettes _

'_Skating', 'Christmas Is Coming', the Vince Guaraldi Trio_

**_(Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.)_**


	18. Chapter 18

**_(Many thanks to my friend and fellow author anon004 for sending me this conversation between Greg and Roz, and graciously allowing me to use it to create this chapter. Check out her latest fic, Time After Time. -B)_**

_December 7th_

_4:45 p.m._

It's a short drive from the clinic to home today; Greg has no errands to run or stops to make. It hasn't been a long day, just mopping up from the last case, making sure the treatment was appropriate given the rarity of the disease and the reactions of the patient. It was Chandler who figured it out for once: Degos disease, complicated by the fact that the patient actually did have an STD—a latent case of syphilis, gone deep underground, so to speak. That was the easy-fix portion of the endgame festivities. The damage from years of happy little spirochetes slowly ascending the spinal column, along with the inexorable depredations of Degos on the vascular system, means all they can do is send the guy home with a sore left gluteus from the long-overdue prophylactic shot, as well as a bottle of aspirin and a recommendation to keep a gastro-enterologist on tap when the ulcers and intestinal bleeding show up, as they inevitably will.

Greg waits with an annoying mixture of reluctance and irritation at the stoplight. He doesn't want to go home, but he doesn't care to spend his time sitting in front of a mindless red signal either. He entertains himself by cranking up the radio—Led Zeppelin, no sappy generic Christmas music for _him_-and revving Barbarella's engine, freaking out the mom and kids in the Subaru Legacy waiting alongside. It doesn't really matter that it's not all that late. Since the clocks have been turned back it gets dark so damned early. What moron thought not staying at daylight savings time was a good idea? He remembers his adolescence and the energy crisis. There were a couple of years when the nation didn't go back to standard time, ostensibly to save energy. Of course, it didn't work. People just consumed the same amount of power, transferring the use from nighttime to the morning at work or school for the first couple of hours, until the sun finally crawled over the horizon. Anyway, he'd never liked getting up in the dark; too much like the way John described reveille. But at least that meant sunset didn't come so early in the evening, with the attendant depression early evening brings him.

He leaves the memory and pushes aside the fleeting thought that there might be other reasons for him to be depressed besides the lack of light at five p.m., and pulls into their driveway—still not cleared of snow, another thankless task he'll have to take care of sometime before spring. He goes through the usual ritual of wintertime parking: pulling the car into the shed that serves as a garage, hauling his backpack out of the passenger side seat, rolling the big door shut. As he does so he spies the light from the kitchen window. It warms him for a brief moment, until he sees movement as well. It's Roz, of course. And it's not that he doesn't want to see her-he does, desperately. But his sense of uselessness in the face of her sadness is so huge it makes him feel totally inadequate, painfully so. And the last thing either of them needs right now is more pain. He heads slowly for the back door.

The ritual of coming in, stamping the mud and slush from his sneakers, dumping his keys on the counter and his jacket over the chair, all offer a delaying tactic for at least a minute or two. Roz looks up with a hopeful glance from her food preparation at the kitchen counter, and it hurts more than if she was pissed off at him. With all the literal and figurative darkness surrounding them at this moment, how can she even entertain the idea of hope? He pushes her away with a terse, "I'm going to get washed up."

He splashes some cold water on his face in the downstairs bathroom. It isn't refreshing the way it would be if it were a hot summer day, but at least it helps ease that dull ache in his sinuses he's had for ages. It's not enough to qualify as an actual headache, it's just pain that waxes into throbbing and then wanes back to soreness. When his leg hurt, something like this wouldn't even be worth noticing, but now that he doesn't have that monster to distract himself he's become aware of all sorts of discomfort he'd have dismissed out of hand as insignificant.

In truth, he knows just how long this pain has been with him. It dates back to the moment he decided he wouldn't feel any emotion about the miscarriage, all of one nano-second after it happened, if it even took that long. He knows there's a part of him, an old and long-ignored, broken-off splinter of his soul, that just wants to cry. There's another, larger part that believes the whole exercise would be self-indulgent and pointless, and, not surprisingly, given all his conditioning over the years, that's the chunk that won out. At least he thinks that until he feels the unrelenting pain behind his eyes. He takes a weary breath and heads back out toward the kitchen.

He sees Roz is still working at the counter. The D and C wasn't tough on her physically, and she's strong, in any case. So the physical effects were minimal and she's fully recovered. He's noticed her eyes still look red and puffy now and then. No doubt she's wept an ocean of tears since the miscarriage, but of course she wouldn't indulge in that sort of thing in front of him; she cries in secret. He winces inside when he realizes what a terrible partner that makes him-denying his own loss, something he can't even bring himself to contemplate, and therefore unable to even provide a scrap of comfort to her. But it's not like she didn't know how emotionally stunted he was when she married him, so she has no excuse to resent the lack of support now . . . Even as he thinks it he knows it's a self-serving untruth. That doesn't stop him from thinking it anyway.

He wants to ask her how she's feeling, but since she's obviously okay at least in the physical sense, and she knows he wouldn't want to hear about her emotional state, he won't do it. It would sound like the kind of socially-required small talk they both hate. He decides to try something more neutral.

"What's for dinner?"

"I finished up early because it was getting dark-" He recalls the job she is working on now is outside, and that's another black mark against him: he hasn't asked if she has enough warm clothing to do outdoor work. "-so I went to the market and got the fixings for _braciole_. I'm done searing the outside of the meat and I'm putting it in the casserole dish to cook in the oven." She hesitates. "And then I want to talk to you."

The scant lightness he was feeling at seeing her take an interest in cooking again is completely crushed by the sudden, visceral fear that grips him now-is this it? Has she finally had enough of his distance, his inability to comfort her? He certainly wouldn't be surprised she's ready to throw in the towel, he's done nothing to deserve anything but her giving up on him.

"'kay," he mumbles, resigned to what's going to happen. He shuffles into the living room and takes a seat on the couch.

He hears the oven door close and numbers on the timer being punched on the key pad. He suddenly wonders if he'll have to leave tonight, possibly even before dinner. At least it's a short walk to the Goldmans. He won't get his old room back, but they have others on the second floor and he can climb stairs now. He wouldn't want his old room anyway-too many memories of Roz having sex with him . . . no, making love, and sleeping spooned up against him . . . The knot in his belly becomes almost painful and the throbbing returns behind his eyes.

Roz comes in and sits on the couch; not exactly at his side, but at least on the same piece of furniture. He chides himself for seeing that as a hopeful sign. All hope is false.

"Greg . . ." she begins. She's using his name instead of her endearment for him, which is not good. At least she didn't call him "asshole" the way his father used to. He decides to take a chance. Not really much of a risk, seeing as how she's about to throw him out anyway. Might as well at least try.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, and then looks down, waiting for her angry recriminations. There's a tense silence. Then,

"Yeah, me too," she says softly.

"What do you have to be sorry about?" His confusion is plain, if the look on her face is anything to go by.

"About getting pregnant, although we both know I didn't do it on purpose. About taking so long to make a decision that it was made for us without our consent. About not being able to help you get through this – "

"Wait-_you_ not being able to help _me_?" His voice spirals upward, thick with incredulity. "I was the one who wasn't there for the D and C! I was the one who stayed away like a weak, useless coward –"

"_No!_ Don't you dare say that!" Roz's voice has also gone up in volume at least four notches. "Don't you _dare_ start doing to yourself what your father did to you!"

For a moment, Greg is stunned by her comment. This coming from someone who has abandonment issues even larger than his? "I stayed away for two days," he dares to say finally. Okay, now it's out; now he's said it.

"Yeah, you did and it—it really hurt." There's a little quiver in her voice that rips him to shreds. "That's something we . . . we need to talk about, with Hazel to help us. But you didn't walk away for good, so—so stop listening to your dad's voice in your head or whatever. Just stop it."

He hasn't exactly shared the details of his relationship with John with her—as in none at all, so how would she know what Daddy dearest thought of him? He's accused her before of getting information from Sarah, but he's proven to his own satisfaction that she hasn't done so. Then how did she know? He realizes she's figured it out on her own; she's fully capable of putting two and two together. He decides to set that aside for now.

"Okay, whatever," he acknowledges reluctantly. "I've still been a jerk."

"Maybe, but it doesn't matter."

Oh, no _way_ can he let that one go unchallenged. "_Seriously? _I give you nothing. No reassurance, no sympathy, nothing. I don't put my arms around you or even hold you in bed."

"But you don't push me away when I reach for you," she says quietly.

"Big fuckin' deal." He dismisses her comment because it's pointless.

"It _is_ a big deal," she insists. "You know what else is? You're here every single night, when I know you'd just as soon have left and not been forced to deal with me."

"Yeah, you're partially right," he admits, and flinches inside when he sees her involuntarily wince. "I don't want to deal with the situation. But I do want to be with you, for what it's worth."

He sees Roz blink back tears, but her voice is steady as she continues. "And I want to be with you."

"That and four bucks will get you a mocha latte at Starbucks," he sneers. "I'm still useless."

"No," she says firmly. "That's not true. You're here."

"So? What is this, a Woody Allen's Philosophy of Life course? 'Ninety percent of success is just showing up'?"

She doesn't answer right away. "It is to me." Her voice is very quiet. He knows she means every word. He still has to refute them.

"That's a really low standard."

"No it isn't. Not to someone who never knew her father, because she was too young to remember him when he walked out on her mother. Not to someone whose mother who changed boyfriends like she changed socks—" She stops, then goes on. "Who left her kid with her parents because she just didn't want to be bothered."

He snorts in derision. "Well, hell. Nice to know I'm at least one level above a couple of total dysfunctional assholes."

He gets the reaction he wanted; she flares up in a rare show of real temper. "Dammit, stop twisting my words! That's not what I meant and you know it!"

"Well, it's hardly an ego booster to be told you're marginally better than two completely toxic parents," he snaps. Better to start a fight than delve any deeper; the knot in his gut is so tight he's afraid he'll snap in two.

Roz sighs and rubs her forehead; her hand is shaking, and he feels a brief stab of hot shame at putting her through even more emotional turmoil. "Fine. Let me try it this way. I've talked a lot about Poppi, and you know him. But I haven't said much about Nonna."

He gathers the rags of his composure and makes an attempt at a conciliatory comment. "You told me she and your grandfather used to get into some real wingdings." Not a word he'd use himself; he's just quoting her. She nods.

"Yeah, they used to drive each other crazy now and then. But there was way more to her than that. I didn't think much about it as a kid. I was living with them, and all that mattered was that she took care of me. She made sure I washed and ate and had clean clothes. She really couldn't help me with my homework because she didn't have much of an education, and what she did have was learned in Italian. But she tried anyway, mostly with arithmetic. She had a good head for numbers. Must be where I get it from."

A small burst of awareness goes off in his head. Roz had been, for all intents and purposes, raised by immigrants. Part of her feelings of inadequacy are the same as those felt by everyone who's first generation American. He tucks the information away; another piece of the puzzle to ponder and study.

Roz continues, her tone a little warmer now as recollection brings back more congenial memories. "I saw her the way most children see their parents-in relation to how they take care of you, not how they interact with the rest of the world. At her funeral, I learned so much more. It was in a decent-sized church, at least by the standards of this town, and it was standing room only. The priest gave his homily about her, what a devoted mother and grandmother she was, and that wasn't news to me, of course. What did surprise me were all the people who came up to talk about her. There was a woman in our neighborhood whose son had died from leukemia. She said Nonna helped her-not by bringing food for the wake the way everyone else had, but by bringing food every week." Roz's voice has a little tremor in it. "Every week, for nine months. The woman said when Nonna came to visit, sometimes she would just sit with her for a while. Not talking, not trying to 'comfort' her, just being there. And there were so many others who said the same thing-that she was there for them after the immediate tragedy was over, when everyone else had gone home. That what they really needed was what she gave them-constancy."

It takes some time for him to say what he's thinking. "And that's all you need from me-just to take up space on the couch?"

Roz shakes her head. "Again, that's not what I said. You're deliberately misunderstanding me. You-you do more than that."

"Like what?" He knows he sounds unreasonable and belligerent, but there's a part of him that's begging her silently _please keep going. Don't give up_.

"I don't know if I can describe it. You're here and I know you still love me."

He can't help poking at this statement. "But I don't tell you."

She shrugs, a slight movement of one shoulder. It's body language for 'the facts are self-evident'-a comment she knows is provocative, at least to him. "You don't have to say it."

"Hah." He stares at her. "You mean, I can't."

"Well, not in so many words. But that's you." She returns his look with one of her own, a steady, thoughtful gaze that has him squirming. She sees him all too clearly with those moss-green eyes of hers, the light in them dimmed by events of the recent past, but there just the same.

"And you'll settle for what you can get?" He can hear the cold disbelief in his tone.

"More like I'll take every bit of you that you'll allow me to have."

House looks sharply at her for a moment, then off into space, pondering what she's said. Roz gives another soft sigh, a sad little sound that wrenches at his heart. "I'm going to check on the _braciole_," she informs him, and gets to her feet. He takes her wrist in his hand and stares up at her, pulls her down on the couch next to him, then deliberately puts his arms around her, bringing her to him, and buries his nose in her hair. He's trembling, he notes in an absent sort of way. Slowly her arms come up to embrace him.

"Hey . . ." she says softly, "it's okay, _amante,_" and he could laugh and weep simultaneously at the reality that she is comforting him yet again when he hasn't done it for her once, and probably never will. Her hands rub his back, little slow caresses. The pain in his sinuses has returned, worse than ever. He tightens his hold and hides his face in her thick, soft locks, draws a shallow, shaking breath, then another.

"I know," she whispers. "I know. Me too." She pauses. "Talk to Sarah."

He manages a slow nod but doesn't dare to speak. They stay there, just holding on to each other, until the oven timer beeps.

They eat their meal in near-silence, although some of the tension has dissipated. There's a little discussion back and forth toward the end about Christmas, putting up a tree, going over to the Goldmans on the twenty-fourth, but it's the kind of desultory, relaxed conversation they always have. What he can't tell her, but knows she shares with him, is the incredible feeling of comfort that casual talk holds. It means maybe, just maybe, things will sort themselves out.

When they go to bed a few hours later, Greg finds himself reaching for Roz as she turns out the light. Right before the darkness falls, he catches the faint glimmer of her smile.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be very welcome. Reviews are like presents under the tree-more is better :)**_


	19. Chapter 19

**_(Here's the start of my annual Christmas present to my readers-short chapters posted in real time-well, American Eastern Standard Time, at least-over the next week or so, so you can share Christmas and New Year's with everyone in the Treatment 'verse. This is always great fun for me to write, and I hope you enjoy it too. My readers are the best in any fandom, and I'm always profoundly grateful for your support and wonderful reviews. Thank you! Thanks also to my new readers and all those who have favorited my stories and me too, I'm deeply honored._**

**_Chapters will be shorter than usual, but there will be more of them. Don't worry about reviewing each one unless you feel like doing so. Enjoy, and a very blessed, peaceful and Merry Christmas to all! -Brig)_**

_December 24th_

_5:45 a.m._

Jason heard the alarm go off as he always did—through several layers of bedclothes. Slowly he reached out of his nest and groped for the clock, pressed the worn button to silence it. Blessed peace fell, but only for a few moments. There was a knock at his door.

"Morning, Jay. Time to get up, sweetie. The frost is on the pumpkin." Mom sounded disgustingly cheerful, and she _always_ said that pumpkin thing. He didn't even know what it meant beyond telling him it was cold outside. Well hell, he already knew that because it was _winter_, duh.

He was standing in front of the woodstove putting on his bathrobe when another knock sounded, this one more firm. "Time to get up, son," Dad said quietly.

"'m up!" Jason said loudly.

"Okay, that's good." Dad was smiling. Jason stuck his feet into his slippers and resigned himself to dealing with his parents, who both seemed to be in good moods. He washed up quickly and returned to his room to pull on whatever clothes came to hand. School wasn't a big deal today, they'd leave at noon and then he'd be free until after New Year's. He'd finished his homework over the weekend and any extra credit work he chose to do today he could do in homeroom this morning. That meant he just had his chores, and then he was free. _Free to do the last of my shopping,_ he thought, and went on the hunt for his sneaks.

The kitchen was warm and fragrant with the smell of eggs and sausage. Jason grabbed a plate and piled food on it, took a fork from the drawer and went to the table. Mom went by and kissed the top of his head.

"Morning," she said. "Half day today."

"Yeah," he mumbled. Did she think he didn't know?

"Dad and I can pick you up if you like. We're talking about going to the movies this afternoon."

Jason speared a chunk of sausage. "'kay."

"And dinner. There's a new steakhouse we thought sounded good." Mom put a teabag in her mug. "Do you have everything you need for Christmas?"

Jason hunched his shoulders. "Workin' on it," he said, and winced at how defensive he sounded.

"Yeah, me too." Dad came in and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. _Be nice to your mother,_ his touch said silently. Jason felt a stab of shame at his surliness.

"Maybe we could go shopping together," he offered, by way of making peace.

"That would be cool." Mom smiled at him, her eyes bright with understanding. "Your dad could use a little help." Her sincerity eased his irritation—she wasn't just jollying him like he was a little kid, she really wanted him to go. And then she had to ruin everything by saying "If you need to contact us this morning, call either my or Dad's cell phone. We'll be gone until about noon."

Jason stared out the window at the blackness. "You're going over to that lady's house. The one with the kids."

"Yes, we are." Mom didn't sound apologetic at all. "We'd really appreciate it if you didn't say anything to anyone."

Like he was gonna open his mouth about this, even to Mandy! "I won't." He scraped up the last of the eggs, stuffed them in his mouth and got up, plate in hand.

"Okay, thanks." Mom hesitated. "We'll be home when you're done with school," she said quietly.

"Whatever." Jason went to the sink and rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher, and got out of the kitchen as fast as he could.

He was putting on his coat when Mom said softly, "I hope your morning's a good one, sweetheart." She sounded sad. Jason flinched; he'd made her feel that way.

"Why do you have to go over there?" He had to ask, even though he knew it would cause trouble.

"Jay, she's all alone with two little ones. She doesn't have any money and she's about to lose her home. She's going without food to make sure her children have enough." Mom's voice was gentle but firm. "We have the ability to help, so that's what we're doing."

"Is that why you helped me?" The words fell from his lips as if he was puking them up. "Because I was just another kid who had nothing and you could fix that?"

Mom didn't speak right away. "In the beginning, yes," she said. "But then Dad and I got to know you. You're our blessing. We wished for you, you know. We always hoped someday, somehow we'd have a child like you in our lives."

"That's so corny," he muttered.

"Yeah, it is. So what? There's nothing wrong with being corny, as long as you're being true to yourself." Mom's soft voice was stern now, unyielding. "We don't consider you just another project, Jason. You're our son and we love you. If you think otherwise, I'm sorry. But that won't stop us from doing what we do." She turned away. "We'll see you at noon."

He rode the noisy bus in silence, thinking about what Mom had said. Maybe she was right; maybe he wasn't just another charity case. They'd adopted him . . . but they were both generous people. As for being what they'd wished for—hell, he wasn't anything anyone would wish for on purpose.

"You're not listening to me," Mandy said. She looked annoyed and concerned at the same time. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said, and hunched inside his coat.

"You had a fight with your parents."

"How do you know that?" he demanded, not bothering to deny it.

"You always get this scowl on your face when you argue with them. It makes you look mean." Mandy looked out the window. "So what's wrong?"

"Nothing." He'd promised not to talk about what they were doing, and that included Mandy, at least for now; he wasn't saying anything while they were on the bus, where anyone could overhear.

"You're so full of it. Fine, don't tell me." Now _she_ was mad at him. Jason felt a renewed sense of despair. He was messing everything up!

"Later," he said after a moment. "I'll—I'll tell you later. In homeroom."

Mandy gave him a sidelong look. Her blue eyes held doubt. "Okay," she said, and then ignored him for the rest of the ride.

The morning crawled on. Homeroom wasn't the usual sanctuary he enjoyed, because no one wanted to do anything except goof off and sing stupid songs and talk about Christmas—even the teachers were being silly. Jason gritted his teeth and concentrated on his extra-credit assignments, since he'd completed his homework over the weekend. He found a spot in the corner where it was relatively quiet and settled in, taking solace in the unemotional logic of mathematics, letting the noise and activity fade away.

He was almost finished when Mandy plopped down next to him. She had on a pair of fake antlers with jingle bells fastened on a stretchy headband, and a slice of apple in her hand. "So tell me," she said. Jason put down his pencil with a sigh.

"Gimme five minutes," he said. Mandy rolled her eyes.

"Why are you bothering with the extra credit? You've already got the highest grade you can get." She leaned forward a little and managed to look menacing, even with stupid jingly felt antlers on her head. "You're breaking your promise. Either you tell me what's going on, or I'm outta here."

"Okay, okay!" He looked around, lowered his voice. "Mom and Dad are helping out a family."

Mandy stared at him. "And you're _mad_ at them for that?"

"What they're doing is stupid." He knew he sounded defensive and wished for one moment he could explain how he felt, but he was embarrassed by the complexity of the emotion.

"No it isn't!" She looked angry, her cheeks turning pink. A small part of Jason's mind couldn't help but notice how cute the pretty color made her look. "Your parents helped my mom and me, does that make you mad too?"

"That's different!" Jason glared at her.

"It's _not_ different. Your parents are doing good things and if you can't see that, then you're a total dumbass!" She got to her feet. "I'm not gonna sit with you if you plan on being a jerk and ruining Christmas for everyone else." And she left. Jason watched her go, angry and hurt and more than a little miserable. He turned back to his homework and found his pencil lead was broken.

"_Dammit_," he growled under his breath, and wished the stupid day was _over_ with already, and Christmas with it.


	20. Chapter 20

_December 24th_

_9 a.m._

Sarah pulled the truck into the muddy driveway and glanced at Gene. "Here we go," she said softly, and offered him a smile. He leaned in and kissed her, a swift, warm salute that left her tingling in all the right places.

"Let's get started," he said, and flashed a grin before he hopped out of the cab.

The house was a nice little place. It needed some shingles and a new coat of paint, but it looked sound enough otherwise. Sarah stood beside Gene as he knocked on the door. A few moments later it opened to reveal a young woman in a faded sweatshirt over a tee shirt, and a worn pair of jeans. Her blonde hair hung in lank strands around her pale, tired face, and there was fear in her eyes.

"What—what can I do for you?" she said quietly.

"Good morning, ma'am," Gene said. "We're your neighbors, the Goldmans. My name is Gene, and this is my wife Sarah." He smiled at her. "We understand you need a few things for you and your children. If you'll let us, we'd be happy to help."

The woman stared at them, her confusion plain. "Please come in," she said after a brief silence.

The house was neat as a new pin, if threadbare and shabby, and freezing cold. "We stay in the kitchen," the woman said. "My name's Clare Bailey."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bailey," Gene said. Clare shook her head.

"Not Mrs., not anymore. Just Clare." She pushed open the door to the kitchen. It was warmer in here; through the small window on the oven door it was possible to see potatoes baking. Two small children played on the floor nearby. They wore several layers of clothing, but they were well-scrubbed and looked healthy, no runny noses or flushed faces, and their clothing was clean.

"I'm sorry, I don't have anything to offer you," Clare was saying. "But you're welcome to have a seat."

They sat at the little round table. "What kind of heat do you have?" Gene asked.

"Oil, but the tank's empty." Clare looked away, but not before Sarah saw the shame in her eyes. Gene glanced at Sarah.

"I'll be right back," he said, and went into the living room. Sarah faced Clare.

"We brought you some groceries, and I hope you don't mind if we got a few presents for the little ones," she said. Clare blinked.

"P-presents?"

"And a tree," Sarah said, enjoying herself. "Have to make Christmas for the babies." She smiled a little. "After we bring everything in, we'd like to talk to you about a job opening that's come up. We've heard you've been looking for work but haven't had much luck."

"Much luck . . ." Clare swallowed. "You—you could say that." She reached out to touch Sarah's hand. "This is real, isn't it? Why-why are you doing this?"

"It's very real, and because we can," Sarah said. "Don't worry, Clare. We're happy to help."

It was the work of an hour or so to get the groceries in the house and set up the tree, and by the time that was done the oil truck had arrived to make a full delivery. Sarah knew Gene had called the company a few days beforehand to get them out so quickly today. He was in the basement with the truck driver helping prime the furnace, and also making sure their discreet arrangements to have a delivery schedule set up with the bill sent to them were still in place.

It didn't take long for the first wave of warmth to move through the house. Clare looked at Sarah, who now had the youngest child happily perched on her knee. The young woman's eyes were full of tears. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Thank you so much."

"You're more than welcome," Sarah said. "My husband and I both know what it's like to go without." She reached out to take Clare's hand. "Now let's talk about that job, and you tell us what you need to make a good home for you and your little ones."

They left an hour later after receiving Clare's delighted acceptance of their invitation to Christmas dinner. Sarah caught a glimpse of the lighted tree twinkling through the little bay window next to the front door, and thoroughly relished the sight.

"You know, this is the first time I've ever really enjoyed decorating for the season," she said.

"Glad to hear it." They'd switched off so Gene was driving; he sent Minnie down the snowy road toward the village. "Let's go finish up our shopping before our boy gets out of school."

They got their odds and ends and took brunch at a little café with excellent coffee and homemade cookies. "Paying the oil company and catching up the mortgage is going to put a sizeable dent in our income," Gene said. "You know Clare will need some time to get on her feet, and she might still need help even after that, at least for a while."

"Yes." Sarah sipped her latte. She didn't indulge in them often, but this one was too tempting to pass up. "I can take more hours at Lou's, he can use me most afternoons and any evening. I've been planning on enlarging the garden anyway—if we put up more of our own stuff we can cut down on groceries to some extent." She stirred her coffee. "We can forgo Key West this year too, that will save us a nice chunk of money."

"Are you sure?" Gene gave her a searching look. Sarah nodded.

"We'll go next year, and it'll mean even more because we gave it up to help someone else." She hesitated. "You know Jason's upset with us."

"Yeah." Gene exhaled slowly. "We have to let him work it out on his own, Sare. He can come to us to talk, but he has to figure out how he feels about this kind of thing."

"I know." She took Gene's hand in hers. "He thinks he's just another in a long line of people we've helped. I've tried to tell him that he's special to us . . ."

"He just has to let it sit in his head for a while. Very much a thinker, our boy. Sort of like the older one we've claimed, too." Gene munched his cookie and washed it down with some coffee. "Not bad, but your cookies are better."

"Hah," Sarah said. "You just know you need to put in a good word to keep the jar full."

"I like a full cookie jar," Gene said mildly. His dark eyes roamed her figure, a slight smirk curling the corners of his mouth. Sarah felt her face grow warm.

"One track mind," she said in an accusatory tone. Gene raised his brows.

"Since when has that been a problem?"

"_Please_. I do not have your gutter mentality," Sarah said with immense dignity, and reached under the table to pinch his ass.

They left early and made it home with an hour to spare before they needed to pick Jason up; by mutual consent they put that time to good use, and enjoyed their mutual efforts.


	21. Chapter 21

**_(Fluff alert. I had fun with this chapter. Hope you enjoy it too-B)_**

_December 24th_

_6 p.m._

Roz took the last of the dishes out of the rack and began to put them away. It was quiet in the house; Greg was still at the clinic, looking over test results from the new patient who had arrived that morning. He probably wouldn't be home until much later . . . She tried to set aside the disappointment; this was something she'd signed on for when she married a doctor. With a sigh she put dish soap in the water just as the phone rang. With a muttered curse she wiped her hands on the tea towel and went to answer it.

"What the hell, you're home," Greg said when she picked up.

"Am I supposed to be somewhere else?" she asked, puzzled.

Greg gave an impatient sigh. "I'm at the tree lot on the common and it isn't getting any warmer out here."

Roz blinked. "The—the tree lot?"

"Great, just great. I married an idiot. Be here in five or I'm spending the money on beer and porn." The line went dead. Roz hung up and was surprised to find a smile tugging at her mouth. She gave in and let it have its way as she went into the kitchen, grabbed her coat off the hook, picked up her keys and headed out the door.

He was waiting for her at the entrance to the lot, looking cold and annoyed. "About time you got here," he said, but he accepted her kiss and returned it. Roz slipped her arms around him and let her hands slide down to rest on his backside.

"If you'd just said something this morning . . ." she said when the kiss ended.

"Oh, shut up." He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Come on, I'm sure the guy selling these monstrosities wants to close down and get drunk."

They wandered down the aisles hand in hand. The selection was limited; only a few trees were left.

"How about a little one to put on the piano?" Roz said, tongue in cheek. Greg shot her a withering look.

"NO."

"Well, what size should we get?" She stopped in front of a fir about five feet tall. It was lovely, its dark green needles backed with a silvery sheen, slender and graceful. "How about this one?"

"It'll take up half the living room," Greg grumbled. "Anyway, it's a live tree with a root ball. We don't have anywhere to plant it."

Roz hesitated. She remembered a young man with Greg's lean features and her green eyes, felt her breath catch in her chest on an unexpected surge of emotion. "We—we could put it in a tub until spring," she said quietly. "It would look nice in the back yard."

Greg gave her a long assessing stare, his expression impassive. "Huh," he said after a few moments. "Fine. Go pay the man."

Roz rolled her eyes and headed off to find the seller.

"Twenty bucks," the man said. "I'll give it to ya cheap just because you have to put up with that nimrod."

Roz chuckled and handed him two twenties. "He's not as bad as you think," she said. "Merry Christmas and keep the change."

They drove home in silence, but when she took Greg's hand, he didn't object; his fingers tightened on hers gently and stayed there until they pulled up to the shed door.

It didn't take long to find a suitable makeshift planter. Roz remembered an old bran tub stuck in the rafters above the barn's haymow; it was dusty and one of the handles was broken, but otherwise sound. "Just keep the root ball moist and covered for now," Sarah said when Roz called her for advice. "After Christmas we'll get some dirt and sand, and potting soil."

They set up the tree in the living room with some ropes and Hellboy's supervision. "Don't we have a bunch of junk we're supposed to hang on this thing?" Greg wanted to know. He took a long swallow of beer.

"Let's just put up the lights," Roz said. "That's enough."

For answer he set down the bottle and went upstairs, to return a short time later with several neat coils of lights and the battered box marked 'ornaments' in Poppi's firm, bold hand. "Get to it," he said as he set the box and lights on the coffee table. Then he headed into the kitchen. Roz opened the box with care and removed a layer of cotton, looked down at the familiar treasures within.

"Here." Greg stood in front of her with a glass of wine. He handed it to her and picked up his beer, clinked the bottle against her glass. "Drink up first. It'll make it easier to endure what's to come."

Roz sipped the wine. It was the shiraz she'd bought a few weeks ago. She savored the strong, deep notes of blackberry and minerals with hints of coffee and chocolate, powerful and invigorating. "A little music would be nice," she said, thinking Greg would put on the radio. Instead he went to the piano and sat down, played a short riff, then launched into 'It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas'. He swung it jazzy and slow as Roz began to unroll the lights.

It took some time to get the LEDs in place, but they looked great when she plugged them in; the colors were bright and cheerful, twinkling among the branches. "Any bare spots?" she asked Greg.

"I'd like to see a few on you," he said, and raised his brows as he leered at her. Roz shook her head and went to the box. She removed the first of the small containers and opened it, took out a small silver bell, its filigree decoration a bit tarnished but still bright. It rang softly as she let it dangle from her fingers.

"An angel just got his wings," Greg said with considerable sarcasm, but Roz shook her head.

"No, this is Nonna's wishing bell. We all got one wish on Christmas Eve, and then she'd ring it and say if we'd been good, we'd get what we wanted." On impulse she walked over to the piano and held it out to Greg. He stopped playing and stared at it.

"I'd say something really crude about ringing your bell . . ."

"Just make your wish, _buffone_," she said firmly. He gave her an exasperated look, but after a moment he reached out and tapped the bell with a lean finger.

"Satisfied?"

"_Grazie_," she said, and ignored his derisive snort. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and made her wish. Then she rang the bell gently. When Hellboy came over to investigate, she let him pat it with his paw.

"My blood sugar's climbing," Greg grumbled.

"He's part of the family too." Roz hung the bell on one of the high branches, then went back to the box.

An hour later the tree was well-decorated. She didn't have many ornaments, but each one was treasured and beautiful, at least in her eyes. When the last one was put in place she stepped back and surveyed the results.

"It's not finished. No topper," Greg said. Roz shook her head.

"We never had one for the tree. The star was hung on the _ceppo_ instead." She smiled at the memory and sipped her wine. "Doesn't matter, it looks okay anyway."

It took only a few moments to fold up the flaps of the ornament box and put it in the closet. Roz claimed a spot on the couch afterward and admired her handiwork. After a few moments Greg settled in next to her with a quiet sigh. Roz enjoyed the feel of his long thigh pressed to hers. She set aside her glass and put her head on his shoulder.

"What do you know, I got my wish," she said, and hid her smile at his soft groan.

"Oh, aren't you just sickeningly adorable," he said, but his lips brushed her temple, and he slipped his arm around her, his hand on her hip. "So, we gonna sit out here all night admiring your artistic expertise?"

"Do you have something else in mind?" She put a demure note in her voice.

"Hah. I've got all kinds of ideas."

"Well I don't know," she said, still prim and proper. "I have presents to wrap."

"You can wrap me if you want," he put his lips to her ear and blew gently, chuckling when she shivered. "Actually I was thinking more along the lines of going out for dinner."

"Everyone's closed early."

"I happen to know your grandfather has a booth with our name on it."

Roz's enjoyment faded. She hadn't been alone with Poppi since the miscarriage; she'd avoided him, putting off the inevitable confrontation. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him for good over her decision to terminate.

"If he kicks us out there's always the diner down the road," Greg said. "Get your coat."

She said nothing on the drive into the village. It was snowing again, making the various light displays look even more festive and charming, but all she could think of was what lay ahead. _I'll remember this every Christmas Eve now_, she thought, and tried to brace herself.

The restaurant was closed, so they went to the back door. Poppi was waiting for them in the kitchen. He turned when they entered, wiping his hands on his apron, and the familiar gesture sent a shaft of pain through Roz's heart. She stopped just inside the door, shaking as she watched her grandfather come toward her. He was a few feet away when he opened his arms wide.

"_Vieni qui_," he said, and the gentle grief in his voice took away her fear. She walked into his embrace and hung on tight. He held her close. "My beautiful girl, I'm so sorry."

They sat together over pasta with fresh olive oil, basil and tomatoes, garlic bread and a rough _chianti_ that suited the simple flavors. Poppi listened while she told him everything, Greg silent but at her side. When she was done Poppi took her hand in his.

"No matter what happens, you come to me," he said quietly. "Rosamundi, you are always my family." He glanced at Greg. "That goes for you too," he said with a hint of a smile. Greg blinked.

"Good to know," he said in a tone that said he would never take Poppi up on the offer. Poppi chuckled.

"I mean it. You're a pair of fools, but you're my fools, and don't you ever forget it." He kissed Roz's forehead. "I'll see you at Sarah and Gene's place tomorrow. If Santa Claus can't find your place he can leave your presents with me."

They drove home with a basket full of _panettone, biscotti_ and wine. "I don't think I need anything else now," Roz said.

"Ah, so I can take everything back. Good to know," Greg said, and flinched when she thumped his head. "Hey!"

The house was lit only by the table lamp in the living room. Roz turned on the tree lights and paused when she heard a faint rustling sound. After a moment she went to Greg, who was in the kitchen extracting a beer from the fridge. With a finger to her lips she led him into the living room and pointed at the tree. Greg peered at it. Hellboy peered back from his perch in the upper branches, golden eyes gleaming.

"The tree's protected from every size of resident rodent, looks like," Greg said finally. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "I say we take advantage of our security and warm up the bed, it's a long dark night till morning."

She woke once in the early hours, to find Greg's lean arms holding her close; his breath stirred her hair. The empty place inside her grew a little smaller. Slowly she eased back into sleep.

**_(buffone-_clown**

**_V_****_ieni qui_-come here**

**For some Italians, a _ceppo_ means a pyramid-shaped structure made of wood with 3 to 5 shelves, covered with bright paper, lights etc. The bottom shelf usually holds a Nativity scene-a _presepio_-while the other shelves hold fruit and nuts, little gifts, etc. The top of the _ceppo_ would have a star or an angel. Thanks to my Italian friends for the information. -B) **


	22. Chapter 22

_December 25th_

_5:30 a.m._

Sarah eased out of bed and put on her good bathrobe. She treasured the feel of the soft, heavy silk against her skin as she slid her feet into her slippers and crept out of the bedroom. The hall was cooler and she shivered, glad for the warm robe and her thermals.

The living room was quiet. They'd left the tree lights on after the fire was banked for the night; they twinkled and gleamed as she put a couple of small logs on the embers and coaxed the flames into life. She cleaned up the hearth, replaced the screen and stood there for a moment, hands stretched out to the warmth as she contemplated the tree. It was a charming sight, at least in her eyes; she liked the way the ornaments and garland filled up some of the gaps. That reminded her, she had a last chore in that regard. Quietly she went to the office and retrieved a bagful of small gifts from the closet.

She'd just put the first of them in the branches when Jason said behind her, "What are you doing?"

Sarah turned. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his dark hair rumpled and his feet bare, scowling at her. "Good morning," she said softly, "Merry Christmas. I'm just finishing up some last-minute chores." She hesitated. "If you'd like to help . . . it's up to you."

He said nothing, just retreated into his room. Sarah watched him. She turned back to her task with a soft sigh. So, no détente on Christmas. She reached into the bag and took out another box, this one labeled for Greg. He had a stocking waiting for him too, as did Roz.

"What do you want me to do?" Jason spoke quietly beside her. He'd put on his bathrobe in a haphazard fashion and he didn't look at her directly, but he was still there to help. Sarah dared to smile at him.

"If you would put some of these in the higher branches I'd really appreciate it," she said. Without further comment he began to do as she asked. She took a few of the boxes and checked through them, found one with his name on it and tucked it in her pocket.

They worked together for a little while in silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. At last the bag was empty. Jason turned toward his room, but Sarah put a gentle hand on his arm. "Wait," she said softly, and offered him the box. He looked at it, then at her. "Go on," she said. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

He took the box and removed the wrapping, opened it. Inside was a pen and pencil set, black barrels gleaming in the soft light. The fittings were silver. There was a card tucked under the set. "For refills," Sarah said as he examined them.

"Why did you get me this?" He held the pencil in his hand.

"A serious student deserves a serious writing tool."

He looked at her then, and Sarah saw tears in his dark eyes. Without another word she gathered him in. He resisted at first, and then he relaxed into her embrace.

"Thanks, Mom," he said after a while. Sarah kissed the side of his head and rested her cheek there.

"You're more than welcome," she said softly. "How about a little breakfast before breakfast?"

They had the first of the cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa, shared at the counter. "I'm sorry I've been a jerk," Jason said as she settled in beside him.

"It's okay, love." Sarah stirred a little coffee into her cup with the cocoa. "You're as entitled to be as cranky and confused as anyone else. It happens to your father and me all the time. Just come and talk to us about it, okay? That's the important thing." She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"_Mom_," he groaned, but he moved a little closer. She put her arm around him and stole a piece of his cinnamon roll. "Hey!"

"So this lady you helped," he said a bit later, as she poured a second round of cocoa. "She's coming here today with her kids?"

"Yes," Sarah said. "I think you might like her, but I'll leave that up to you." She finished off the last of her roll. "When we went to her place she had no heat except for the oven in the kitchen."

Jason looked down at his plate. "You can't help everyone," he said quietly. "There are too many people like her, Mom."

"A wise woman once said that if you can't feed a thousand people, then feed just one." Sarah smoothed a lock of Jason's hair, tucked it behind his ear. "Your father and I can help Clare. It means we have to give up some extras, like going to Florida. But we don't mind. It's more important that a young mother has what she needs to get back on her feet and make a good life for her two babies." She smiled at him. "Think about what the world would be like if everyone helped just one person in some way."

"It won't ever be like that," Jason said.

"But if we can imagine it and put the idea into action, maybe someday it will be." Sarah put her hand over his for a moment. "This means a great deal to your father and me. Whatever your personal beliefs are, we ask only that you respect ours. You don't have to join us, but please don't make us wrong for caring about others."

"It's not that . . ." He fidgeted. "I don't want to be just another person you helped."

Sarah's breath caught in her throat at the forlorn note in his voice. "You're not," she said after a moment. "I meant what I said yesterday. Your father and I wished for you with everything in us, and here you are. You've already given us far more than any small thing we've done for you."

"I wished for you and Dad too," Jason said with clear reluctance, but it was also plain he meant what he said. He got to his feet; his cheeks were red. "I'll do the dishes."

"Go back to bed for a while," Sarah said when everything was tidied away. "Presents later."

"Okay." Jason hesitated. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, _mo ghille mear_." She watched him head off and hoped he would like the new bathrobe she'd bought for him; his old one came nearly to mid-calf now, and his shoulders were bursting out the arm seams. _Growing up_, she thought as she always did, but suddenly the knowledge struck her with a force she'd never felt before.

Gene found her sniveling into her cocoa. "Good lord, woman," he said in quiet exasperation, but he got her to her feet and put his arms around her. "We've got a houseful of people comin' over and here you are, cryin' in your coffee."

"It's c-cocoa," she mumbled, and stuck her face in his chest. Gene sighed and rubbed her back.

"Come on, let's go back to bed. Another hour or two lazing around won't hurt. I know I could sure use it." He guided her toward the door. "Let's get the guitars out and play later. We haven't done that for a while."

"Okay." She wiped her eyes and went up the stairs with him. There would be plenty of opportunity later to talk about the passing of time, and their boy's transition to manhood; for now she kept her thoughts on the jam session, and the chance to spend part of the morning doing absolutely nothing at all.


	23. Chapter 23

_December 25th_

_8:30 a.m._

Roz woke to the feel of a paw touching her face. She blinked, and the paw gave her a double pat. With caution she opened one eye. Hellboy looked down at her, his ears clicked back just a bit to indicate mild annoyance. _Breakfast is late_, she could almost hear him thinking.

"Mmmph," she said, and stretched just a little. Beside her Greg snored softly. His hair stuck up in all directions, revealing his bald spot, and his nose was scrunched against the pillow. Roz resisted the urge to kiss him and eased out of bed, shivering. She grabbed her bathrobe and pulled it on as she headed for the kitchen, the cat winding around her feet.

After she'd presented the Heebster with his food, she set up the coffeemaker and got out a mug. They'd go over to Gene and Sarah's place in a couple of hours, but for now a little caffeine would be welcome.

While the coffee brewed she stood at the window, looking out over the fields. It was a grey morning, the sky pearly and luminous. A fresh blanket of snow had fallen sometime in the night; here and there the soft, faded yellow of old cornstalks showed, and the rusty leaves of oaks still on the branch, burnished against the deep greeny-black of the jack pines. Across the lane she could see woodsmoke rising from the Goldmans house, and light in the windows. A crow called, the sound echoing in the stillness.

The fragrance of fresh coffee drew her away. As she filled her mug she heard Greg stir, then stump into the bathroom. A moment later the shower started, and she smiled. Deny it all he wanted to, he was just as excited as any little kid when it came to Christmas morning. She glanced at the tree, just visible through the doorway. Time to get the presents out of the closet.

It took some doing to get the bag to the tree without making too much noise. Quickly she began to put the boxes in place, to find one there already with her name on it. Roz bit her lip. She blinked back unexpected tears and finished the job, folded the bag and took it to the kitchen. She'd just tucked it away in the drawer when Greg came in. "Morning," she said. "Merry Christmas."

He grunted at her, grabbed a mug out of the dishrack and went to the coffeemaker. Roz knew better than to try to talk to him; he always needed about a half hour to come to life. She took her coffee with her to the bedroom, intent on washing up and getting dressed.

When she emerged, it was to find her present sitting on the coffee table. Greg sat with his feet propped up next to it, arms folded and head tipped back. As she came in he opened his eyes. His gaze slid from her to the tree. Roz hid a smile. She paused and picked up two boxes, brought them over to him. He accepted them and set them to one side. "Open yours first," he said. Roz did as he asked, to find two complete sets of black silk thermals with fingerless gloves and heated socks.

"Don't want you freezing solid," he said. For answer Roz kissed him, moved by the concern hidden in the flippant words.

"Thank you," she said softly. He fished around inside one of the shirts and found a small envelope, gave it to her. Roz opened it with care and discovered a clinic appointment card inside, dated for the fourth of January, with Rob Chase's name on it. "What's this?"

"I sat down with Chase last week and set up everything for a vasectomy," he said quietly. "I'm leaving it up to you. If you want me cut, then I'll get it done."

Roz looked at the card, then at Greg. He watched her carefully, his vivid blue eyes full of tenderness and anxiety and apprehension, all mixed together. She honestly didn't know what to say. _Only he would think this was a gift, and something to give on Christmas too._ "Um," she began, "let me . . . let me think about it. I'll give you an answer by the end of the day."

"'kay." Greg swallowed and looked down. Roz took his hand in hers.

"Thank you," she said, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Then she reached over and picked up a present, put it on his lap. "Merry Christmas."

"You are _not_ gonna say that all day long," he grumbled, but to her surprise he actually opened it, making quick work of the wrappings to find a tee shirt folded neatly. He shook it open to reveal a map of New Jersey with 'Restore the Shore' written into the logo. "Great, now I'm a billboard for downashore."

"Better than a sweater," she said with a slight smile. Greg gave her a quick look but said nothing. "Open another one."

"Later. We should get going before my analyst comes over here and nags us all the way to her place." To Roz's surprise he kissed her, a swift, tender touch of his lips to hers.

Ten minutes later, bundled in coats, scarves and mittens, burdened with bags of presents, they set off down the lane, Hellboy curled in Roz's arms.


	24. Chapter 24

**_(I'd planned to write more today, but my left knee decided to give me grief and the pain meds I'm on tend to interfere with my ability to write. Here's the last chapter for today, but tomorrow we'll get more Christmas details. -B)_**

_December 25th_

_6:30 p.m._

It's always interesting when a group of disparate people gather together in a social situation such as a funeral or a wedding, or a holiday spent at someone else's home.

Greg's had a ringside seat in his favorite easy chair for most of the morning and afternoon, watching the guests as they move in and out of the area he surveys; he'll get to keep it, rather unexpectedly so, since the evening dance at the fire hall's been cancelled due to slippery roads—it's snowing hard and due to continue for the next few hours. Gene and Sarah have greeted each person according to his or her lights, but always with kindness, humor and respect. There are two attendees of equal interest: the latest project, a mother with two kids who looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over, though the children are healthy enough; and Chandler. Singh's on duty for once, and it seems Sarah persuaded his fellow to show up for dinner at least. This is a first. What's even more fascinating is that she's hanging out with the toddlers—as in sitting on the floor with them, playing and singing and having a great old time. She's even wearing slacks and a sweater—another first. It's the best entertainment he's had in ages.

The buffet's been out for casual dining about an hour now. It's something of a potluck—baked ham and scalloped potatoes from Sarah, pizza and garlic bread from Lou, green salad and _antipasto_ from his wife, hot spinach-artichoke dip and pita chips from Anne Faust and her daughter, and apparently Chandler brought homemade applesauce. He's loaded his plate twice now and retreated to his chair to watch the little groups as people sit, eat and chat.

"See anything interesting?" Roz settles next to him. She's wearing a ridiculous little red velveteen Santa cap with a glittery fake-fur ball on the end; it perches on her dark hair at a flirty angle he finds charming. She has a glass of something sparkling in her hand—probably _asti_ from her grandfather's stash. He'd helped the older man bring in some cases earlier.

"Just eating my dinner," he says, and takes a huge bite of pepperoni pizza.

"Uh huh." She gives him a skeptical look. "You're making Clare nervous."

"That's the anemic mom, I take it." He munches and swallows.

"You know perfectly well who it is." She sips her wine. "We have stocking swag, you know." He raises his brows like it's news to him, though of course he's been anticipating the delights of his stocking all day. "Let's take them home so we don't have to share."

He chuckles. "That's my girl."

They sit together watching the others, until one of the toddlers gets up on unsteady legs and staggers over to them. It's the boy; he's about two years old, with a chubby little face and his mother's blond hair. Roz watches him, and just for a moment or two her expression holds pain and terrible sadness, all the more powerful for being silent. Then it's gone and she's smiling, her hands out to the child. "Hello, _bambino_," she says, and chuckles when he grabs her fingers. Then he's on her knee and making a grab for her hat. She takes it off and pops it on his head as Chandler comes over with the baby girl on her hip.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. There is true compassion in her voice, though she doesn't push it in Roz's face.

"It's all right," Roz says, and laughs when the little boy bounces up and down. She holds him with care, her slender hands gentle, and suddenly Greg knows exactly what she's giving up by being his wife. Without a word he stands and takes his plate into the kitchen, dumps it in the sink. He pauses on the edge of flight, then takes a seat at the counter, unable to return to the living room.

A few moments later Roz enters the kitchen. He shrinks from the sight of her, but she comes right to him. Without a word she sits next to him, takes his hand. She doesn't say anything, she just sits there.

"You should never have made that stupid fucking agreement," he says finally. His voice is harsh, angry. "You should never have married me."

She looks down at their hands. "I had my chance to be a mom," she says quietly. "I could have married Rick. We'd have at least three kids by now. I chose you because I love you. That's the tradeoff."

"You shouldn't have to choose," he mutters.

"Maybe not. But I did anyway." Roz says it with no anger or sadness. "Sarah says Chase is taking Anne and Joy with him to the clinic. Clare and the little ones are staying over, they're going upstairs now to get settled in. Gene wants to have a jam session in the living room. If you want to join in you're more than welcome." She strokes his palm with her thumb. "I'd like to stay."

Greg ends up with the Martin six-string, while Sarah plays her mandolin and Gene uses the old beat-up dreadnought someone rescued from a flea market sale over the summer. Roz sits with him, and the teenagers hang out with Gene and Sarah. It's peaceful in the living room now, with cold beer and the fireplace offering light and warmth; they haven't played together here in a long time. He remembers his first days in this house, how he sat outside the circle of friendship and believed he would never enter it. Now this is home, and he is surrounded by people who know him well by now and like him anyway, and one woman who's given up far more than she should just to be at his side. It's nothing he ever dared to wish for, but here it is all the same.

They talk and joke around and play far into the night as the snow falls silent and steady in the winter darkness.


	25. Chapter 25

**_(Real life interfered with my plan to write some extra chapters this weekend, but now I'm back on track to some extent. We'll get this chapter and another one tonight, attending the New Year's Eve party in the village. Btw, all the gifts mentioned are real and can be purchased online or in stores. -B)_**

_December 26th_

_7:30 a.m._

Roz woke to the sound of stealthy movement. With reluctance she opened one eye and struggled to focus. Something brushed her face and her heart skipped a beat. She brought her hand up to touch whatever it was and felt fabric under her fingertips when she'd expected fur. She opened the other eye and found the light was on. An object lay against her pillow. It was her Christmas stocking, the one Sarah had given her the night before. Slowly she turned her head. Greg sat next to her, watching. He held his own stocking in his hands. The eager impatience in his expression told her the whole story.

"Could I at least have some coffee first?" she asked. Her voice was rough and low with sleep. Greg rolled his eyes, but he set aside his stocking and got up. Roz noted he had on his bathrobe and socks—so he'd been awake for a while. He headed off to the kitchen. Roz closed her eyes and drifted off. She didn't get many chances to sleep in; she planned to take advantage of her opportunities while she could.

"Hey."

She bumped out of a light doze to the smell of brew, strong and fresh. Greg held a cup in both hands. Slowly she sat up and accepted it from him. The heat felt good on her cold fingers.

"Thanks," she said, cradling the cup. "Open yours first, you've been patient long enough." She kept the sarcasm mild, but he gave her a keen stare before he picked up his stocking.

It was plain right from the start, Sarah knew how to do good swag; Greg went at the first layer like a two-year old discovering the delights of a cookie jar for the first time. He took out a magnificent little amethyst geode, cut in half and the edges polished, a bag full of guitar picks of all sizes and colors, a wrapped box which held three DVDs.

"Warren Hatch," Greg said, and looked pleased.

"Who is he?" Roz sipped her coffee and relished the balance of roasted bean and sweetness.

"A scientist who uses a microscope set up with a camera to film all kinds of things. Frog life cycles, bee and wasp behavior, all the infinitesimal empires living in your back yard. Nice." Greg set them aside. "We can watch them later."

The second layer was devoted to candy. This year they were all homemade: fragrant peppermints, buttery caramels, chocolate truffles and almond brittle, cherry cordials loaded with kirsch. She and Greg tasted each variety and set the rest aside; Roz knew her stocking was sure to hold just as many goodies, so she'd get a bowl and put everything in it, set it on the counter for casual grazing if Greg agreed to it.

The heel held a chocolate orange. Greg smiled a little when he removed it. "Tradition," he said, and opened the foil to give her a wedge. Roz nibbled at it while he dug into the toe and brought out a dark blue cashmere muffler, a couple of flash drives—"New music," he said—and a long package that proved to be a sign with the words 'unapologetically brilliant' carved into the smooth wood and rubbed with gilt to give them a burnished look.

"Hah," Roz said, chuckling. "Only a mom would believe that."

"Only a wife wouldn't know it was true," he said, and nudged her stocking. "Your turn."

The top layer held the other half of the amethyst geode. Tucked inside it was a little amethyst crystal on a delicate silver chain. A flat square box contained a slide rule—but not the kind she'd seen in books. This one was round.

"_Nice_," Greg said, his expression one of intense curiosity. "An Alro, manufactured in the Netherlands during the first part of the twentieth century. Made to be used with one hand."

Roz examined it carefully. "There's a booklet with it, but it's in Dutch," she said. "Could you translate it for me?"

He nodded, paging through it when she handed it over. "It'll be a good way to get proficient again, haven't had any call to speak the language for a while. Not since Oma died, anyway."

The candy was the same as Greg's, but in place of the orange she received two bars of Amedei dark chocolate. "From Tuscany," she said, humbled by Sarah's generosity. "We'll have this New Year's Eve, with some of Poppi's _asti spumante_. It should be savored."

The toe held a pen and pencil set, soft eggshell white with bits of color like pieces of sea glass, and gold fittings. Tied to the box with a gold ribbon was a little journal, the cover made of soft leather and tied shut with a rawhide cord. The pages were thick, handmade cream-colored paper, sprinkled with little bits of dried flowers. Roz held it in her hand, delighted. She could take it with her to work, tucked in a pocket . . .

"A chance to write down pearls of wisdom." Greg's eyes held a faint gleam of amusement, but understanding was there too.

The last gift was a thin shawl—an intricate paisley pattern, lustrous with a silky fringe. Roz stroked it, enchanted. "I don't know where I'll ever wear it," she said softly. Without speaking Greg got up and went out of the room, to return with a package. He sat down once more and held it out to her with a hesitancy that went straight to Roz's heart. She took the gift and opened it, lifted the lid off the white box. Within lay a sweater—silk like her topaz-colored one, soft and supple, the color a green so deep it was nearly black, with delicate knit cables and panels, long sleeves and a boat-style neck.

"_Wow_," Roz said softly. It was dramatic and feminine and utterly lovely; she could wear the shawl over it, and her new necklace. "It's so beautiful . . ." She leaned forward and brushed her lips over Greg's. He deepened the kiss. She could feel his immense relief hidden behind the gesture. "Thank you," she said against his lips. "Thank you so much, _amante_. I love you."

"Try it on," he said, his voice husky. Roz gave him a slight smile. She took off her thermal top, lifted the sweater out of the box and with great care, eased it over her head. As she put her arms into the sleeves it settled in around her like a caress, soft and warm. She fluffed out her hair and stretched a little.

"How's it look?" she asked. When Greg didn't say anything she glanced at him. He watched her, the reticence turned to something much more primal; the desire she saw warmed her as thoroughly as the fine wool of the sweater.

She took it off before they made love, and he teased her about it. "Don't want it to smell all sweaty . . . it _is_ a sweater," he said, and nipped at her earlobe as she chuckled and brought him close. It was the best thing in the world to be with her husband, surrounded by stocking swag and the first weak rays of winter sunlight, and Hellboy inspecting everything before curling in a neat furry ball at the foot of the bed.

"Wonder if Sarah liked her stocking," Roz said later, as they lay together. She reached out to touch the sweater, tucked neatly back in its box. She'd wear it to the New Year's party along with the shawl.

"We'll find out eventually," Greg said. He cupped her breast in his hand, rubbed his thumb gently over her nipple. "Hope you've got something planned for breakfast, I'm starving."

"Me too." She kissed him and sat up, slipped out of bed and grabbed her bathrobe.

It only took a few minutes to set up the standing tray and add two fresh cups of coffee, a pot of cream and a little bowl of brown sugar, and a plate of _biscotti__._ Then she retrieved the second present from under the tree, tucked it in the crook of her arm and went back to the bedroom. Greg sat up as she came in. He saw the present and glanced at her, a quick assessing look. Roz set the tray on the bed and sat next to him. She put the present to one side, out of the way but within his reach.

"What is it?" He eyed the gift as he took his cup.

"You'll have to open it to find out," Roz said, and chose a _biscotti_. She dunked it with care. "Unless Santa Claus gave you x-ray vision for Christmas."

"Hmm . . . interesting. I'd be scanning everyone to see how clean their underwear is, and blackmailing them if they had skid marks."

Roz nibbled her _biscotti_. "Liar. You'd be looking at all the pretty girls."

"Well, yeah," he said, and rolled his eyes. Roz gave him a light smack on the knee. "Hey! That's spousal abuse!"

"I'll give you abuse if you don't open that present," she said, struggling not to laugh. "Just do it."

"Yes ma'am," he said with spurious meekness, and began to dismantle the wrapping paper, bit by bit. Roz watched him. Despite his intention to tease her, she liked the anticipation—it was half the fun, after all.

At last he removed the paper, set it aside. Greg's eyes widened. He swallowed and glanced at her, then back at the box. "You talked to my mom," he said, but there was only a slight hint of accusation in his tone.

"Yes," Roz said. She sipped her coffee but she couldn't hide her enjoyment in his bewildered delight.

"Where the _hell_ did you find this?" He ran his fingers over the worn surface. "It's the first edition they made, but it's almost in mint condition. I always wanted one, but Dad-" He fell silent.

"Ebay's a great resource." She'd searched for ages to find just the right purchase and waited with considerable anxiety through the last hour's bids, but she'd won in the end. "Come on, open it."

Slowly he lifted the lid. "Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots," he said in an awed, reverent voice. "They still have their stickers."

"There are score cards and a manager's manual too," Roz said. "Let's try it out." She got up and set the tray on the floor as Greg put the toy between them.

"I call Blue Bomber," he said. His eyes glinted with a young boy's savage satisfaction. _It only took fifty years to put that look on his face_, Roz thought. _Up yours__,__ John House_. She gave her husband a wide and she hoped, evil smile.

"Red Rocker says bring it on, _cazzamoscio_."

_(cazzamoscio-wimp; well, that's the polite translation!)_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like champagne on New Year's Eve, you can't just have one glass! :)**_


	26. Chapter 26

**_(Sorry it's late, but the muses decided to add a little more to the chapter at the last minute, and I wanted to add in a conversation meant for the previous chapter that got left out. This is it for this week, I won't post again till Monday and then we'll be back to one chapter a week for the time being. A very Happy New Year to everyone! -B)_**

_December 31st_

_6:30 p.m._

It's been an uneventful day, for a Monday before a holiday. Greg managed to escape work early and get in a good nap, complete with cat, through the grey, dreary afternoon. Roz came home at her usual time and made a the last dinner of the old year—baked chicken with rosemary and garlic, and potatoes. They'd had a leisurely meal in the warm kitchen with the radio on in the background, talking about their day.

It's during dessert—a chocolate souffle, light as air and requested by him for his birthday—that Roz says "I've thought about the second part of—of your present."

He says nothing, just takes a bite of souffle. It's delicious as always; she makes it with crème de cacao and a tot of brandy, not too sweet, nice hit of chocolate and liquor. He hasn't said anything to her about her decision, even though it's several days past her self-imposed deadline. He knows her well enough by now to understand she takes this seriously, she's not jerking him around or punishing him.

"My decision is yes." She says it simply, but he knows this is a huge choice, on her side of things anyway. He gives one short nod.

"I should have done it years ago," he says. Self-loathing rises up inside him, corrosive, agonizing; he could have spared her the terrible pain she's endured, could have prevented damage to someone he knows he cares for more than his own life.

"Greg." Her use of his name makes him look at her. She is watching him, her green eyes dark with understanding and, to his astonishment, a profound love. "We're here, together. What's past is past."

He blinks. "You'll have regrets," he points out. "It's inevitable."

"I know. But I'll be with you, and in the end that's all that matters to me." She gives him that slight smile of hers, the one that softens her strong features and makes her beautiful, in his eyes at least. It's edged with sadness, but he understands why, or at least he thinks he does.

"You're sure," he says. He has to push, has to see if she means what she says.

"Yes." Her answer is quick, clear. "I've thought about it. It's the right thing to do."

"Easy for you to say," he mutters, and knows it's a miserable cheap shot given what she's gone through.

"If you don't want to have the surgery, then I'll go in for tubal ligation," she says, calm as you please. He blinks.

"What?"

"It really doesn't matter which one of us takes the next step. What's important—" She stops, and then he sees the pain she's usually so careful to keep hidden, "what's important is that we make sure an accident doesn't happen again."

"It's on me to get it taken care of," he says, more harshly than he intended. "It's my responsibility."

She doesn't say anything. Instead she reaches out to take his hand. Her slender fingers clasp his with such gentle firmness. They sit there for a few moments. In this moment, surrounded by the ordinary setting and her quiet presence, he feels how his life, all that came before, has brought him to this moment with this woman. Maybe she feels the same way. Maybe later, they'll talk about it. Right now it's enough that they're together.

After cleaning up dinner, they get ready for the party. He wears his new tee shirt under his flannel. Roz pairs her new sweater with her black velvet pants and the shawl; with her dark hair done in the cap-of-feathers style she's made her own, she looks incredibly elegant and soignee. He bundles her into her big down coat after she puts on her boots, makes sure she's wearing her mittens, before he pulls on his own parka and hat and gloves. She takes one last check to see that Hellboy's curled up somewhere warm and comfortable; then they're on their way.

The fire hall is already filling with people by the time they get there. Greg knows the other band members are setting up; he sees Minnie Lou in the parking lot, along with Singh's and Jay's vehicles.

"Play well," Roz says softly. She leans in and kisses him. "We can celebrate your birthday and the New Year when we get home."

"I'll hold you to that," he says, and returns her kiss.

The hall is warm and smells of good cooking. Greg hears Gene tuning, Singh trading a laugh with Jay. The kid's setting up the amps, performing his apprenticeship duties before he grabs his sax and goes off to warm up and get nervous. Sarah is here somewhere, probably in the kitchen readying the birthday cake along with everything else. He takes a discreet look around and knows that this too is now tradition, just like the chocolate orange in his stocking. It's a thought at once oddly comforting, and unsettling as hell.

Enough sentimentality; he peels off his coat and tosses it toward a hook, climbs the steps to the stage and goes to the keyboard.

"Hey," Gene says, his lean face creased in a smile. "Looks like we'll have a good turnout tonight."

"Yeah, everyone missed the dance on Christmas Eve," Singh says. "They'll be ready to party."

He's right; by the time it's a few minutes before eight, the place is packed and noise levels have risen considerably. Greg catches a glimpse of Roz working the buffet. She has the red Santa cap on her head and a tray of cookies, with Mandy at her side; the two of them are talking and laughing about something. For some reason the sight makes him feel better. To cover it he says "We'd better get started before they burn the place down."

They tune together, then Gene steps up to the microphone. "Welcome to the big bash!" he says with a grin, and they launch into the first number of the night: 'Dance, Mr. Snowman, Dance', an old Crew Cuts chart they've jazzed up a bit. Jason works the homemade sandpaper block for the soft-shoe special effect.

At the end they swing right into 'Mele Kalikimaka,' an instrumental version, with Gene having fun pretending to play a slide guitar. Since they missed the Christmas dance, they've thrown in some holiday tunes along with the New Year's Eve eve stuff; it fills out their playlist and makes everyone happy.

Next up is 'Little Saint Nick', a favorite since they started playing together. They're warmed up now, and they crank the volume to rock the place. Almost everyone is out on the dance floor bopping to their sound, a sight that sends the merest tinge of warm through Greg's cold cinder of a heart in ways he'd never admit to anyone. This time around Singh gets the penultimate line, 'he don't miss no one', which earns him cheers and catcalls from his family.

'Jingle Bell Rock' is a natural followup. They do it as an instrumental in rockabilly style, stolen straight from Brian Setzer. This one's fun because they can do an extended version, which gives Gene a chance to show off his Gretsch while Jason gives the bells his best, which is pretty good. Greg catches a couple of girls watching the kid and hides a smirk—so his protégé has admirers and doesn't even know it. Good thing, undoubtedly; he'll start noticing the babes soon enough without their encouragement.

Gene takes the mike again when the song's done. "A belated Merry Christmas to everyone," he says. "It's good to be here with you tonight. In case you don't know who we are, we're the Flatliners. I'm Gene Goldman—" Sarah cheers wildly from the back and everyone laughs—"and that's my private cheering section, my wife Sarah. On piano, Greg House—" Now it's Roz's turn to yell for him. He glares out at her, lips twitching. "On drums, Sandesh Singh, and our bass man, Jay Lombardi." Gene glances off to the side where Jason stands half-hidden. "We have a new member this year, my son Jason Goldman. He's our roadie and special effects guy, but he's got a solo coming up during the second set." The kid is bright red now, glowing hard enough to give off his own light. Gene grins at him before he turns back to the mike. "Okay, let's slow things down a little."

'Please Come Home For Christmas' gets the couples out on the floor, and everyone else heads for the buffet to talk and mingle. Greg looks for Roz. She's at the back with Sarah, filling cups of punch. She looks gorgeous; he can't wait to get her home and have her all to himself, a familiar sentiment. At some point she looks over and smiles at him, and he catches himself returning her smile. It's a damn good thing Wilson isn't here, he'd never hear the end of it.

Near the end of the song Sarah comes up to join them. Her warm, clear alto is a natural for 'Merry Christmas, Darling'; they play it slow and jazzy for her. At one point she turns to Gene and sings to him, and it's plain she means every word of the song. He faces her, and for a few moments they're in their own little world. Greg sees Jason watching them, his expression one of pride, love and embarrassment mingled together—exactly right for his age and personal experiences.

They finish up the first set with an instrumental version of 'Sleigh Ride', Jason doing duty on the bells once more. When it's done Gene grabs the mike. "Twenty minutes and we'll be back, but be sure to stick around because there's gonna be birthday cake for the birthday boy, our very own Gregory House!"

So of course they play the stupid song while Sarah brings out the cake, and of course everyone yells "HAPPEEEE BIRTHDAAAAAAAAY!" at the top of their lungs, and he's forced to blow out the candles and endure cheers and applause. At least he gets a kiss from his wife out of it, which makes it almost worth all the humiliation. And the cake is pretty good too, chocolate with lots of buttercream frosting.

They start off the second set with Jason's piece. He is so nervous Greg feels a few distant pangs of sympathy. With a distinct air of martyrdom the kid walks up to the mike, clears his throat. "This—this is for my friend Mandy," he says, and swallows hard before he steps back and counts them off. For the first two measures or so he's tense, afraid of a wrong note, and then he eases into the chart as if it's just him and the band. Very quickly it's apparent Jason's got the potential for excellent chops. He uses Dexter Gordon's riffs as a basis for his own, but there are a couple of passages that are original. The hall is almost silent while he plays. When the song is over, there's that golden moment where breath is suspended—and then the place is filled with cheers and applause. Jason stands there, clutching his saxophone, looking winded and astonished, his face scarlet. He gives everyone a bow and shuffles off, but not before Gene gets up, sets his guitar aside and gives him a hug.

"That was fantastic. So proud of you," he says under all the noise. When the kid walks away, he's at least six inches taller, his head held high. A minute or so later Mandy comes up to him, says something, then leans in and kisses his cheek before she scuttles away. The look on Jason's face is priceless.

Once everyone's settled back in they start off with 'Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight With You)', a Ramones classic. They move from that raucous goodie into the Moonglows 'Hey Santa Claus', a band favorite. That takes them to the big number for the kids, 'Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town', done Bruce Springsteen style of course. They vamp long enough for Santa to catch his cue and show up. Rick's in the suit again this year; he's the only one who looks good in it anyway, and he knows what to expect when the kids mob him. They have fun with the song while gifts and treats are handed out; when that's done at last they go right to 'Merry Christmas Baby'. About halfway through the song Sarah comes up on stage. She goes over to Gene, who's singing and watching her, a grin plastered over his lean features. When she pulls a sprig of mistletoe out of her pocket and holds it over his head, he obliges her with a kiss that brings down the house.

Another solo is up now—they've been rehearsing with Chelsea Butterman for the last few weeks. She's dressed in green and red, her fair hair held back with a glittery red headband; she comes to the mike, stands so she can see Greg, takes a breath, folds her hands in front of her diaphragm, and nods—all of seven years old and a consummate professional. He plays the intro they've decided on for 'O Holy Night' and she comes in dead on cue. She sings effortlessly, her tone sweet and pure, hitting the high notes straight on. The hall is absolutely silent; her beautiful voice fills it, shining and innocent. At the end everyone gets to their feet and gives her a thunderous ovation as her dad comes up to take her to her family.

"Chelsea Butterman," Gene says as they walk off. "If you want to hear more, she'll be soloing in church this Sunday. For tonight she's started off our carol sing-along for us."

They play four familiar songs: 'Silent Night' and 'Joy to the World', 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing' and 'O Come All Ye Faithful'. Of course the audience lags behind and sings off-key, but everyone's enjoying themselves all the same, and the band knows it's just something they put up with to give people some Christmas spirit, even if the holiday's over.

After the sing-along they offer two more songs: 'What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?' It's a nice slow song that gets people onto the floor. Greg looks for Roz and sees her threading her way along the edge of the buffet, coming toward him. She ascends the stairs and arrives to stand next to him, puts her hand on his shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. This song has a special significance for them. He feels the warmth of her body, the soft fragrance she wears, the touch of her small hand; it's all a welcome reminder he's no longer alone, but also that he has the power to create happiness or misery in someone's life, and his track record to date is not encouraging. Still, she's chosen to be with him; that has to count for something other than sheer stubbornness on her part.

Of course the last song is 'Auld Lang Syne'. It's a little before midnight, so they wait while everyone gets a glass of the non-alcoholic fizzy stuff and then they roll it out, the song with words no one understands anymore, which would sadden Robbie Burns no end undoubtedly. And then they're done for another year, and it's time to pack up and go home.

He and Roz ride in silence, but it's a companionable quiet. Still, it feels good to come into the warm house, to go through all the simple tasks of bringing things in, taking off coats and gloves, settling down and making ready for bed. And yet some part of him feels restless, unanswered. While Roz feeds the cat and puts away plates and glasses from the dish rack and sets up the coffeemaker, he goes to the piano and sits down, lets his hands wander over the keys. After a few moments he hears the song emerge and listens to it, not really surprised by the choice some part of him's made. He and Roz have unfinished business, surgery or no surgery.

_baby I've been here before_

_I know this room__,__ I've walked this floor_

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_love is not a victory march_

_it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah . . . _

Roz is standing in the doorway, listening. She knows this song well, it's a favorite of hers; he hears her playing it sometimes, when she thinks no one is around.

_there was a time you let me know_

_what's real and going on below_

_but now you never show it to me, do you_

_and remember when I moved in you_

_the holy dark was moving too_

_and every breath we drew was hallelujah . . . _

Slowly she comes in, to stand by him. When she touches him he closes his eyes; he doesn't know if the song stands as accusation or self-condemnation, maybe both. Her arms steal around his neck, light and warm; her cheek rests against the side of his head. After a little while he feels her tremble, a soft sting of wetness on his skin, then another. He keeps playing; the pain in his sinuses is a dull, hot ache behind his eyes.

_maybe there's a god above_

_and all I ever learned from love_

_was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you_

_it's not a cry you can hear at night_

_it's not somebody who's seen the light_

_it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah . . ._

"Hallelujah," she says at last, barely a whisper in the quiet room, and it undoes him so completely he can't complete the next chord in the progression. The next thing he knows they're clinging to each other as if their very survival depends on it. Perhaps it does, he's not sure. All he feels are the hot tears leaking from his eyes to dampen her soft thick hair, and he can't do anything but hold her close, her slender frame pressed to his as she weeps tears of heart's-blood in silence against him, their mutual agony and relief mixed together to fall in the soft darkness, drop by drop.

'_Dance, Mr. Snowman, Dance', the Crew Cuts_

'_Mele Kalilimaka', trad. Arrangement_

'_Little Saint Nick', the Beach Boys_

'_Jingle Bell Rock', Brian Setzer Orchestra_

'_Please Come Home For Christmas', the Eagles_

'_Merry Christmas, Darling', the Carpenters_

'_Sleigh Ride', trad. arrangement_

''_Happy Birthday', trad. arrangement _

'_Soul Sister', Dexter Gordon_

'_Merry Christmas (I Don't Want To Fight With You)', the Ramones_

'_Hey Santa Claus', the Moonglows_

'_Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town', Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band_

'_Merry Christmas Baby', Bruce Springsteen_

'_O Holy Night', trad. arrangement _

'_Silent Night', trad. arrangement_

'_Joy To The World', trad. arrangement_

'_Hark! The Herald Angels Sing', trad. arrangement_

'_O Come All Ye Faithful', trad. arrangement_

'_What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?', Johnny Mercer_

'_Hallelujah', Leonard Cohen (my personal favorite is Rufus Wainwright's cover)_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like a really good hangover remedy-always appreciated!_**


	27. Chapter 27

_January 4th_

_7:30 a.m._

Roz eased the truck into the parking lot, squinting in the orange light of the single sodium vapor lamp used to illuminate the whole area. She knew where she'd find Barbarella-sitting closest to the door in the disabled spot, of course; Greg still used his placard when it suited him. Typical of her husband, stealing the best of both worlds for himself. At the sight of the car she drew in a breath, let it out again. She hadn't been sure it would be here.

With a quiet sigh she pulled into an adjacent spot, put the truck in park and shut off the engine, clambered out into the cold. As she made her way into the center she remembered her own visit some weeks ago, and further back, Greg's surgery to implant the matrix in his damaged thigh. This time around he'd made the decision to arrive on his own. She'd fought her fear all the way here, so afraid she'd find he'd never come in at all . . . that he'd washed his hands of her for good.

Now she went through the doors and to the desk, where the nurse looked up and smiled at her. "Hey Roz," she said. "He's in pre-op. Doctor Chase said you could go straight back."

She walked to the area and ignored the rumbling of her empty belly. Greg hadn't eaten of course, so she'd skipped breakfast too; it didn't seem right when he couldn't, though if he found out he'd mock her for her sentimentality. Still, he'd had a rough night of it. She'd heard him get up in the small hours to watch some tv and then play the piano with the damper pedal down, before he finally came back to bed an hour or so before his alarm went off. She'd lain in the dark, listening to the quiet blues he usually favored over anything else, and knew he needed to be alone, though she'd longed to go to him.

The pre-op room was small but neat and orderly; she hadn't expected anything else in Diane Wirth's workplace. Greg lay in the bed, a cotton thermal blanket tucked in around him. An IV was set up in his left arm. His eyes were closed, but when she moved closer he opened them. It was clear he'd been sedated, but he still managed to say "You're late."

"I'm exactly on time," she said, and came to stand by the bed. "Did they give you good stuff?"

"Yeah. Gunney took care of it." His words were slurred a little but his gaze was steady. "Stay."

She reached out, took his right hand in hers. "Don't be an idiot. Of course I'll stay." He sighed a little, closed his eyes. Roz understood then what he meant. "I don't do paybacks," she said quietly.

His fingers tightened on hers. "You should," he said. His voice was harsh now, but he looked scared.

"Waste of time," she said. She rubbed her thumb over his wrist, a slow circle. "Where's Rob?"

"Counting swabs in a closet with some nurse, prob'ly." Greg hesitated. "Shouldn't take long to get this done."

"I'll be here when you wake up," she said, just as her stomach gave a low, rumbling growl. His eyes opened wide.

"You didn't eat breakfas'. Dumbass. What's that going to ac-accomplish?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, and leaned in to kiss him. "I'll have something when we're back home."

"Don't worry," he said. "This . . . this isn't a big deal."

"It is to me," she said. "I love you," and she kissed him again. He closed his eyes and swallowed once, twice.

"'kay," he said, so softly Roz could barely hear him.

Rob came in a few minutes later. In his scrubs he looked at ease and confident, a reassuring sight. "It's a simple procedure," he said as he escorted her to the waiting area. "Takes about half an hour, so he'll be in post-op before you know it. When everything's done I'll talk with you both about recovery and patient care."

"Please resist the temptation to carve your initials anywhere," Roz said dryly.

"Now don't take all the fun out of this for me," he said, and flashed a rare grin at her, blue eyes twinkling. "See you shortly."

She'd just taken a seat when Sarah came in. "Good morning," she said, and sat next to Roz. "Thought I'd keep you company."

"You drove in with Gene?"

Sarah nodded. "Jason's staying at Mandy's for the day." She put a hand on Roz's shoulder and rubbed gently. "Did he sleep at all last night?"

"Not much." Roz slipped an arm around Sarah's waist, glad of the company. "He's afraid I'll walk out on him."

"I'm not surprised. His trust issues go deep, even with people he knows and loves." Sarah glanced out the window at the first streaks of grey light. "You already know your being there when he wakes up will go a long way toward resolving his fear."

"Where else would I be?" Roz said quietly. Sarah gave her shoulder a little squeeze.

"You were worried about him leaving too." Roz nodded, ashamed of herself. "Given your history, that's an expected reaction, and so is his. The fact that you're both here tells me you're making good progress."

They sat in a comfortable silence after that, but it was broken a short time later by Gene's arrival. He bent down to kiss Sarah, then took the seat next to her. "Everything's going well," he said. "Another ten minutes or so."

"You just stuck your head in the OR to see what was going on?" Sarah demanded.

"No, I used the intercom," Gene said in a long-suffering tone. Roz couldn't help but smile. Her stomach growled again.

"You didn't eat breakfast," Sarah said. "I think I should come over to your place and make something nice for you."

Roz sensed an ulterior motive, but a kindly one. "Okay," she said. "I'll take you up on that."

It was literally only minutes later when Rob stood in the doorway. "Done," he said with satisfaction. "Come on back. He's a little groggy but okay."

Roz made sure she was right behind Rob when they entered post-op. Greg seemed to be asleep, but as Roz approached the bed he blinked, focused on her. For one moment she saw surprise, then a joy so powerful her heart gave a funny little clutch. In another beat it was gone and he glared at them all, though it was much diminished due to circumstances. Roz moved to Greg's side. Without hesitation she pulled over a rolling stool, sat down and took his hand in hers as Rob spoke.

"Okay, here's how it goes. You'll need to rest for a couple of days. Today it's best if you stay on your back as much as possible. If you have a snug pair of briefs, they'll help reduce discomfort. Cool packs placed around the scrotum—"

"Over my dead body," Greg growled. Gene chuckled. "Screw you, Gunney."

"Something you won't be able to attempt for a while, so I have no fear," Gene said, and laughed when Greg flipped him the bird with his free hand.

"Cool packs placed around the scrotum will help reduce inflammation," Rob continued, unfazed. "Take your pain meds and get plenty of rest for the next couple of days, and avoid any heavy lifting for a week or so. It'll be about a week before you can have sex, but you'll need to use a condom for the next couple of months until you get your sperm tested. You might feel a little discomfort for-"

"Yeah yeah, nice speech. You did a good job of copying it right out of WedMD," Greg sneered.

"Always a good idea to steal from the best." Rob glanced at Roz. "If you have questions, I'm available anytime."

"She _is_ married to a doctor." Greg closed his eyes. Roz gave his hand a squeeze.

"Could everyone please leave us for a while? If we need help we'll use the call button," she said, and waited until the others had left the room before she spoke again. "If you'd feel more comfortable here instead of at home, it's okay."

"No," he said. "Just . . . just give me some time." He didn't look at her as he spoke. She knew then he was caught up in old memories, old fears.

"Take all the time you like," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't reply, but his fingers tightened on hers.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at home. Sarah had driven Roz's truck back for her, so Roz drove Barbarella, with Greg wedged into the passenger side. He was uncomfortable but not in bad pain. Still, he hadn't objected when she'd offered him a pair of loose sweatpants to replace his jeans.

When they came into the kitchen, it was to find Sarah at work making dinner. "Just a little something so you don't have to cook," she said to Roz. "There's a batch of soup in the fridge for the patient, and some pudding for later."

"The patient can eat any damn thing he likes," Greg said. He dumped his coat on a chair and moved carefully into the living room. "Starting with a beer."

"Starting with clear liquids," Sarah said cheerfully. "I got you some ginger ale."

"If ginger ale qualifies as a clear liquid, so does beer," Greg muttered under his breath, and sat slowly on the couch. Roz went into the bedroom and got some pillows and the comforter, brought them out and offered them. Soon enough Greg was settled with remote at hand. "You don't have to hover over me, I'll be fine," he said with considerable impatience. "Get something to eat. Listening to your stomach rumble is annoying as hell."

Roz didn't answer. She went into the kitchen and found two glasses of soda waiting, along with a pile of buttered toast and two small plates. She took it all back with her on the stand-up tray. "A nice treat," she said, and selected a slice. It was delicious, made from leftover cinnamon rolls; she munched and put a plate in Greg's hand. He gave a theatrical sigh but took the hint and slapped some toast on it. She was glad to see it disappeared quickly, followed by another slice and some of the soda.

"What do you need?" she asked quietly when he was finished. He lay back slowly.

"Meds," he said. "In the bag Chase sent home with me."

He fell asleep soon after taking them. Roz brought the comforter up over him, worried at the lines of weariness in his face. He was not a young man, and while this wasn't major surgery, it was another procedure in a long line of them.

"He'll give you a hard time at first," Sarah said before she left. "He'll test limits, find out what your real intentions are. Once he's sure of you, he'll settle down. Anyway, I'm not tellin' you what you don't already know." She gave Roz a hug. "Call me if you need anything, I can be here in two minutes."

It was pleasant to realize she wouldn't have to cook for the next day or two, and that she had backup if needed. Roz took a blanket from the linen closet and curled up in the big easy chair next to the couch. Greg was still sleeping, with Hellboy draped over his feet. She smiled a little at the sight and closed her eyes.

When she woke the room was dark and the tv was on a sports channel, with a football game in progress. Greg was awake. She sat up and stretched, a bit stiff but none the worse for wear.

"You're not sleeping in that thing tonight," Greg said. "I can stay out here, you take the bed."

Roz bristled at the peremptory tone used in that statement, and knew at the same time that he expected exactly that reaction from her. Without speaking she went into the kitchen, took the soup out of the fridge and put some of it in a saucepan to heat. It was chicken soup, Sarah's special recipe, rich and golden, thick with chunks of meat, vegetables and noodles. She got down two oversized mugs and filled them when the soup was heated through, grabbed a pair of spoons and went back to the living room.

He ate the soup without comment, had some of the vanilla pudding too, took more meds and dozed while she washed up the small pile of plates and mugs and silverware. When she returned he said "I mean it. Sleep in the bed tonight."

"I can decide for myself where I want to sleep," she said with some tartness.

"I don't need you glued to my side," he snapped. "I won't fall apart if you're not attending to me every damn second of the day."

Roz set down her cup of tea and turned to face him. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I need to be close to you? That I'm—I'm worried about you and don't have any other way to show it than to stay where I can help?" She didn't have to fake the emotion. "I'm not trying to mother you to death, I just—" She stopped.

They sat in silence, with only the sound of the game to fill the quiet room. Then Greg said "I may be an old fart but I'm fairly sturdy. Stop worrying."

Roz sighed. "Yeah, because it's that easy." She got up. "Okay, you've driven me to this and you have no one to blame but yourself." She went out of the room before he could say anything, to return a few minutes later with the laptop. She put it on the fold-down tray, then set it with care over Greg's legs. He peered at the screen.

"Do you require your reading glasses, old fart?" Roz inquired in a sweet tone.

"Shut up, smartass." His eyes widened. "What the hell is this?"

"It's self-evident, isn't it?" She settled into the chair, picked up her tea and sipped it. "You've been on Amazon enough to understand how the pages work."

"What the—a _banana slicer_?!" He lifted his gaze to glare at her, but she saw the smile fighting to pull up the corners of his mouth. "Holy shit, you're mean—hitting a man in the balls when they're all stitched up and throbbing with pain."

"They are not all stitched up, I happen to know Rob didn't use a scalpel. As for throbbing, that's your problem, not mine, horndog." She turned her attention to the game and listened to her husband's reluctant chuckles at the product reviews. After a while he set the laptop aside and patted the spot next to his hip.

"Come here, you little minx."

"You're not the boss of me." Roz picked up her cup and got to her feet, to be captured and pulled down with a long arm.

"Ouch." Greg gave her an intimidating stare. "Making me laugh won't let you get away with jack."

"Who says I want to get away?" She kissed his cheek. "I'll sleep in the chair if I want to."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Mess up your back, see if I care." His hand stroked her side. When he spoke again it was with a touch of diffidence. "I wouldn't mind a little more of that pudding."

"I could slice up a banana for you too," she said, and laughed when he tugged a lock of her hair. Then he kissed her, and she felt his relief, mingled with annoyance and amusement—a familiar mix that reassured her. He would be all right, and so would she.

She made up two bowls of pudding for them both with whipped cream on top and banana slices around the edge. Hellboy begged for some cream and got it, as usual. Eventually Greg pushed aside the comforter and rose to his feet. It was plain he was uncomfortable but he said nothing, just stumped off to the bathroom. Roz waited until Greg was done and back in his nest on the couch before she took a shower and brushed her teeth, then laid out her clothes for the next day and returned to the living room. She found a pillow tucked in place on the easy chair, with the blanket draped so she could climb in and pull it over herself with minimum effort. Greg lay with his face turned away, eyes closed. Roz stood there for a moment. It was a small gesture, but she knew how much it had cost her husband to make it when he felt exposed and vulnerable. She moved to the couch, bent down and kissed his temple. "See you in the morning," she whispered.

A glimmer of a smile touched his lips. "'kay."

She fell asleep to the reassuring sound of his soft snore.

_(The banana slicer reviews do exist. Go to Amazon and look for the 'Hutzler 571 Banana Slicer', and enjoy. Thanks to my friend Emilie for the idea -B)_

**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like banana slices in homemade vanilla pudding-delicious! :)**


	28. Chapter 28

**_(Just a quick shout-out to clp66-her latest Susan Chronicles story, _Journey Back_, inspired parts of this chapter. I love her OC character Billy. Check out her stories and you'll find out what I mean, they're well worth reading. -B)_**

_January 8th_

_4:15 p.m._

Sarah heard the back door bang shut and couldn't help but smile. It had been a quiet day with no one home; Jason was back at school of course, while Gene was off on a two-week consult in Omaha.

"It's a long time to be away, but it'll bring us a nice chunk of money," he'd said the night before he'd left. Doubtless he'd have to take more work like it to loosen up their budgetary purse-strings, at least for the next while. Sarah thought of the little room at the church, gleaming with fresh paint, a new carpet, a desk and comfortable chairs. She had the paperwork to begin her re-certification process . . . _I'll work on it tonight_, she thought, and looked up as Jason came in.

"Hey handsome," she said. "How was school?"

"Okay." He put his sax case and backpack near a chair and took off his hat and gloves. "What's for dinner?"

"Roast chicken and veggies. Do you want mashed potatoes or baked?"

"Baked." He stuffed hat and gloves in his pocket. "Are we gonna work on the garden?" The excited impatience in his voice amused her.

"Yes, if you have all your homework and practicing done."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it's all done. Did we get any new stuff today?" For answer she held up the Landreth's catalog, arrived just that morning. Jason's face brightened. "_Sick_," he said, and unzipped his parka while he headed for the closet. Five minutes later he was sitting next to her, devouring a banana and perusing the pages.

"I thought this year we could start our own plants," she said. Jason looked up from his study of a list of herbs.

"You mean like in a greenhouse?"

"Sort of. We can get some grow lights and make our own stand, and that way we can grow just about anything we want to, we won't have to depend on buying plants from the feed store." Sarah looked at Jason. "What do you think? Would you like to help me build the stand?"

"Yeah, okay." Jason finished off the banana, took the peel into the kitchen and returned with a piece of paper, a pencil and a couple of cookies. "How big should we make it? How many levels should we have? What should the measurements be?"

"I don't know," Sarah said, secretly delighted by his enthusiasm. "Why don't we get the tape measure and take a look at the place where we'll put the stand?"

"Okay." Jason picked up a cookie and stuffed it in. Sarah was forcibly reminded of her older boy; she knew that just as with Greg, it was partly a gesture meant to provoke a response. She gave him the one he expected—the mild disapproval of a motherly eye.

"You're gonna choke one of these days," she said with a sigh. "Come on, let's get busy."

It took very little time to measure the area in the mudroom where the stand would go. "Looks like we can put in four levels," Sarah said while Jason used the measuring tape. "We'll need enough room to move the lights up as the plants grow." She glanced outside at the wintry landscape. "Cold frames . . . we'll need those too."

"What's a cold frame?" Jason wrote down numbers.

"It's a sort of glass-topped box where you put the plants to get them used to being outside. If you just stick them in the ground right from being indoors, they'll die. It can also extend your growing season by a couple of weeks for some vegetables." She looked at the garden. It needed expansion, and that meant more fencing to keep out deer, not to mention rototilling the new section, checking the soil pH and adding in compost and other amendments. It would pay off in the end, but they had a lot of work to do first. "We can go to the auction and buy old windows, they work really well."

"So where do we get the stuff we need for this?" Jason peered out the window. "We'll have to expand the garden. Can we grow watermelons this year? You know, the super-big ones they have at the grocery store?"

"It would take a lot of work," Sarah said. "Those melons need a very long growing season, about two months longer than we get this far north with frost dates where they are for our zone. And they don't transplant very well after a certain stage, they like to do most of their growing where they're gonna live." She gave him a slight smile. "Why don't we go through the catalogs and see what we can find that will mature in our climate?" She had a good idea of the variety she wanted, but this was a cooperative venture; Jason would decide too.

On the way back in she checked the chicken and put several potatoes in the oven to bake. The phone rang as she headed for the table. Jason was absorbed in scanning the watermelon listings, so she answered it. It was Rob.

"Hey babe, what's shakin'?" she said.

"Have a favor to ask," he said, and sounded a bit hesitant. "I know this is really late notice, but . . . I, ah, asked Clare out and she's . . . she's a bit reluctant to go on a date—you know, a her-and-me date."

Sarah knew where this was headed, and she didn't mind at all. "If you'd like to have Clare and the babies come over here for dinner, that would be just fine. We're having roast chicken so there's plenty to share, I'll just put in a few more potatoes to bake."

"That's great! I'll bring dessert. Um—should I get baby food?" He was a little panicked now. "I don't know what her kids can eat."

"I think we can improvise without too much difficulty," Sarah said. "We can always blend up veggies and fruit, and I've got some cream of rice cereal in the pantry."

"Excellent. If we show up around six . . .?"

"That's perfect. See you then." She paused, then couldn't resist. "Tell Lou I said hello. And remember I love his chocolate _cannolis_, if he has any left."

"I've been rumbled," Rob said on a chuckle. "Thanks, Mum. I owe you one."

Sarah ended the call, went to the kitchen to scrub more potatoes and pop them in the oven. When she returned to the dining room table, it was to find Jason glowering at her. "What's going on?" he wanted to know. Sarah sat down next to him and noted his tense posture, hunched shoulders and white knuckles on the hand nearest her. She deliberately yawned and stretched a little, taking her time about it. It was a good way to signal 'everything's fine' via body language; she'd used it many a time in sessions and it almost always worked, though it sometimes took a while.

"Rob's coming over with Clare and the babies," she said. "They're having dinner with us. He's bringing dessert." She kept her tone casual and light. She was rewarded with a slight but noticeable lowering of defenses.

"Why's he bringing her here?" Jason wanted to know. Clearly curiosity had won out over resentment.

"Mmm . . . I think he wants her to feel comfortable." Sarah made it speculation, not fact. "This is a neutral meeting area, one Clare is a bit familiar with now. And she can bring her children along without causing difficulties." She paused. "You and Mandy had a good time playing with Jake and Amy when they were here for Christmas."

Jason relaxed further. "Yeah. They're cute." He shot a sidelong glance at Sarah. "This is you helping them out, isn't it?"

She had to be honest. "Indirectly, yes. But it's also me being a friend to Rob."

Jason didn't say anything in reply. He turned back to the catalog. After a brief silence he said "I found some varieties we could try."

"What did you find?" Sarah asked, and let him change the subject back to seeds. She knew her boy would think about what she'd said, and more than likely he'd come to her later to talk about it.

"You already have one picked out." It was both statement and accusation.

"I have one in mind, but that's all," Sarah said. "We'll make the decision together. Now, what did you find?"

They worked on the list for another half hour or so; then they put everything away, with Jason going off to his room and Sarah in the kitchen, making things ready for supper. She added some leftover baked chicken thighs to the roasting pan so they'd heat through, made up a batch of cornbread, spooned it into a pan and put it in the oven alongside the chicken. She was taking a jar of strawberry jam out of the pantry when she heard Jason came into the kitchen, undoubtedly to steal another cookie or two. "Would you get out the blender for me please?" she called.

"What for?"

She counted to three. "We might need it for the babies."

"You're gonna blend them up?" Jason snickered. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Haha, you're the original laugh riot. Get the blender out for me please."

When she came into the cooking area the blender sat on the counter, but there was no sign of Jason. Progress had been made, at least; he'd done as she asked and also cracked a joke. She took the blender pitcher to the sink to wash up.

"Want me to set the table?" Jason hovered in the doorway. Sarah glanced at him, then turned back to her task.

"That would be great, thanks," she said, careful to keep her tone casual. "If you could set places at the end closest to the—"

"_Mom_. I know what to do." Jason came in, went past her to the cupboard where the plates were kept. "Just—just big plates?" he said.

"Yes, we won't need the salad plates tonight."

"Should I have Rob and Clare sit next to each other?"

Sarah started to reply, then paused. "What do you think would work best?"

There was a brief silence. "This is like a first date or something, right?"

"Yeah, pretty much." She put some soap in the pitcher and began to clean the interior with a scrubby sponge.

"Maybe they should sit next to each other then. That way they can talk." Jason spoke with less hesitancy this time.

"Good idea. The babies can be between you and me, and Clare and Rob can sit on the other side. Can you handle having a toddler beside you at supper?" She rinsed the pitcher with warm water and picked up a tea towel.

"Yeah, it'll be okay." The sound of plates being set out followed his reply. "Don't we need high chairs?"

Sarah wiped her hands. "Good thought. Let me give Rob a call."

"We've got it covered," Rob said when he answered. Sarah had to smile at that unconscious 'we'. "See you in about fifteen minutes or so."

"So what do we do?" Jason wanted to know when she returned.

"Just leave some empty space between you and me," Sarah said. "We'll put the babies there and help them eat."

"They're gonna make a big mess," Jason said. He sounded tentative, a little worried.

"Well yeah," Sarah said. "But so did you and I when we were little. We'll manage."

She was just taking the cornbread out of the oven when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She set the pan on the counter as Jason came in.

"They're here."

"Do me a favor if you would please—could you make sure all the small bits and pieces are picked up and put out of the way in the living room? We don't want little ones getting hurt." Jason nodded.

"Okay."

"Thanks." Sarah moved to the front door as Jason began to put candleholders on the mantelpiece. She undid the lock and opened the door, to find both Rob and Clare with red-faced, crying toddlers in arms.

"Sorry about this," Clare said as she stepped inside. She looked much better than she had the day she'd met Sarah; she'd gained a little weight and her thick blonde hair was soft and shining. "They woke up late from their naps and didn't want to get ready to go."

Sarah chuckled. "That's all right, I wake up cranky from naps too. Here, let me take him for you." She accepted Jake and settled him against her, delighted by the warm weight of his small body. "Hey, little man," she said softly, and rubbed his back with a slow, gentle touch as he sobbed and wriggled. "Hey now, it's okay . . . Shhhh . . . it's all right, sweetheart."

Clare watched in obvious astonishment as her son quieted and lay his head on Sarah's shoulder; he was still fussing, but already calming down. Sarah grinned at her. "Years of babysitting do pay off," she said softly, and glanced at Rob, who was struggling to calm Amy. "Talk to her. I bet anything she'll like your accent."

Rob did his best to comply and was rewarded a short time later with Amy curled up against him, grizzling. "She has a wet bottom," he said quietly.

"Use the downstairs bathroom," Sarah said. "Can you change a nappy?"

"Actually yes, I can." Rob took the diaper bag from Clare, gave her and Sarah a smile, and headed off.

A short time later they all sat down to dinner. Both babies were awake now and very lively. Sarah foresaw that she wouldn't eat much, but she didn't care. It was a pleasure to have Jake on her lap, gnawing a fistful of cornbread and making a huge mess while the adults laughed and talked. She observed Rob and Clare without appearing to do so, and saw the glimmer of a reciprocal spark, something she knew neither of them realized consciously—not yet, anyway. That was a good thing, though; it would give them time to get to know each other, discover likes and dislikes, mutual opinions, life histories and experiences . . . She glanced at Jason and found he was holding his own pretty well with Amy—in fact he seemed to be enjoying himself. He offered spoonsful of pureed peas and carrots while she bounced and crowed in her seat, reaching out to grab anything she could. Now and then he pulled a silly face at her and smiled when she laughed and tried to put her grubby hands on his cheeks.

"I talked with Colleen yesterday," Clare said. "She wants me to start next week." She sounded surprised, a little uncertain.

"That's great!" Sarah said. "Do you need help with the babies?" She heard the hopeful note in her voice and cringed. _Way to sound pathetic, Corbett._

"Well, I've got daycare set up, but . . ." Clare hesitated. "There—there might be some evenings when I'd need a babysitter." She didn't look at Rob. "Would you be interested?"

"Of course. I do work some evenings, but you might consider talking to Anne Faust. Her daughter Mandy would make a great babysitter for the nights I can't help out. She's watched the Buttermans children so you can ask Marti for references."

"Thanks." Clare smiled at her, her fair face beaming.

"You're more than welcome." Jake took that opportunity to grab at Sarah's plate. "Oh no you don't, you stinker!" She laughed, set it outside his reach and gave him the coated spoon to play with. He smacked it on the table and left a little dent. Clare winced.

"Sorry," she said. "He's a handful."

"Don't worry about it," Sarah said, and meant it. "He's exactly what he should be, a happy and healthy boy. Aren't you, little man?" She kissed the top of his head and smiled when he bounced and gurgled.

She was pleased to see Rob accept Jake on his lap after dinner, as they sat in the living room around the fire. Amy staggered from Clare to Sarah and back again, occasionally falling into Jason, who sat on the floor by the couch, near Sarah. He observed the little girl's antics and set her back on her feet, careful to steer her in the right direction. Sarah was delighted to see Clare was relaxed and enjoying herself, and so was Rob. He held Jake with no sign of impatience or discomfort; he looked thoroughly at home with a baby on his knee. _They'll have one or two of their own_, Sarah thought, and smiled to herself.

The house was quiet after they left. Sarah went into the kitchen to rinse dishes and load the dishwasher. Jason came in a few moments later. He said nothing, just took some paper towels and the lavender cleaner. A short time later she heard the vacuum. He didn't just do the table area, he went into the living room too. When he returned to the kitchen Sarah said "Thanks."

"'sokay." Jason sat at the counter while she rinsed the sink. "You like babies."

"Yeah, I do." Sarah wiped her hands and turned to him. "Would you like me to read to you tonight? I know Dad—"

"Being read to is for little kids." He didn't look at her when he spoke. Sarah paused. Gene and Jason were still reading a book together, Gene had mentioned it just the other day.

"Your dad and I read to each other all the time," she said—not in challenge but as a simple reply. She had a good idea why he'd made his pronouncement. "It's nice. I like listening to him read, he's got a good voice."

Jason shot her an assessing look. "Yeah." He said nothing more, but a bit later, as she banked the fire in the living room, he stopped by his bedroom door.

"If you want to read to me, it's okay," he said to the floor, and went into his room. Sarah finished stirring down the embers, replaced the screen, and turned off all the lamps but one. She went to Jason's door and gave a soft knock, then slipped inside. Jason was curled up under his usual layers of blankets and comforter. The book lay on the night stand—_The Dark Is Rising_, an old favorite of hers. Sarah sat in the easy chair next to the bed and picked up the volume. She opened to the place where the bookmark lay and began to read.

She had paused to turn the page when Jason said, "What if Clare was a bad person? Would you still help her?"

Sarah considered the question. "I guess it depends on your definition of 'bad'," she said finally.

Jason sat up a little. "People are either bad or good."

"I disagree," Sarah said mildly. "Most people are a mixture of both. I am, so's your Dad. You are too."

"You think I'm bad?" He sounded very young.

"I think you're a good person who sometimes gets mean or impatient or does dumb things—just like me and Dad. Clare is probably the same way."

"But what if she isn't that way? What if she's—" He fell silent.

"What if she's like your mom, or mine?" Sarah said quietly. Jason looked at her, his gaze troubled.

"She could be hurting her kids. Maybe when you went to her house, she wanted you to think she was worried, but she really wasn't."

Sarah set aside the book. "Okay, let's look at her behavior," she said, and saw him relax a little at the familiar process. She knew he needed the security and structure of rational discussion, much as her older boy did. "She cared for her children at her own expense. She did her best to keep them warm, clean and fed in any way she could while she went without. When she was offered help she accepted it and used it to make things better for her little ones. If she was like my parents, she wouldn't have done any of those things. She'd have used all that help for herself and expected even more." As she spoke she felt the old pain those words evoked, the sense of despair and helpless anger.

"Yeah," Jason said slowly. "Like my parents too." He sighed. "Why did they have to be like that?"

Sarah leaned back and rubbed her arm slowly. She no longer had the physical scars, but sometimes she could still feel them aching. "I could give you a lot of technical explanations, but to be honest I really don't know why. What I do know is that Clare isn't like that. She's trying to be a good mom to Jake and Amy." She reached out, stroked a lock of his hair from his forehead. "I also know you didn't deserve to be treated the way you were."

Jason turned to face her. "Neither did you," he said. Sarah smiled a little.

"You're right. Thanks."

They finished the chapter and said goodnight. When Sarah kissed Jason's temple, just for a moment he leaned into her touch. Then he burrowed beneath his layers.

"If Dad calls will you wake me up?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"You bet. Love you, sweetheart. Sleep well." She turned out the light and left, slipping from the room in near silence.

She went to the office and got out the certification paperwork, started to work on it, and then sat back a little. A glance at the clock told her it was after nine, but not late. She hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was answered after two rings.

"What?" Greg said. Sarah closed her eyes at the sound of his voice. "Goldman? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said finally. "Nothing's wrong. Just—I just wanted to call and find out how you're doing."

"I'm fine, no thanks to my wife." Sarah heard Roz say something in the background, some snarky riposte, and Greg chuckled. The sound eased her heart like balm. She listened to it and knew her own boys were close and safe.

"I'm thinkin' you'll survive," she said.

"You sound weird. This is that menopause thing—"

"Oh, shut up," she laughed. "I started the paperwork for the practice and needed some distraction."

"So, gonna take the plunge at last." Greg sounded pleased under the sarcasm. "The southern Adirondacks will never be the same. There'll be so many well-adjusted people walking around, it'll be the true zombie apocalypse."

"You know, I don't know why I call when all I get is abuse," she said, delighted by his teasing. "Are you still coming by tomorrow?"

"Of course. Where else can I get a free lunch?"

"It's good to be loved," Sarah said dryly.

"Stop bitching. You know exactly what you're worth," Greg said. She heard the smile in his words. "Get back to work. Papers don't make up bullshit information by themselves, you know."

"You've been listening to McMurphy after all, I'm shocked. All right, I'm going, slavedriver. Love you, goodnight."

"Sarah." His use of her first name stopped her hanging up. "If you need help, if you—" He fell silent.

"I'd like you to come with me when I go in for my interview," she said. "Thank you, son."

"Yeah, okay. 'night." And he was gone. Sarah hung up the phone and sat there for a moment. Greg House was her greatest success, though he'd done most of the work himself—just as it should be. He was a work in progress, but then so was everyone else. _Including me, _she thought. She'd continue to help him in any way she could, but it was time to offer her abilities to others in need. She was ready now.

She worked in the quiet, shadowed office until the small hours, taking the next step forward.

'_Keep Me In Your Heart For A While,' Warron Zevon_

_**(Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like zombies-the more the better! Well, from the zombies point of view anyway. :) )**_


	29. Chapter 29

**_(One more chapter after this, and then we'll go to the next story in the Treatment series, called Opening Day. _**

**_Many thanks to all who have added my stories and/or me to their Favorites lists. As always, I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful. -B)_**

_January 20th_

_11 a.m._

Zero hour has arrived; it's time for their semi-monthly session with the Russian. Greg wishes he could indulge in a beer or a shot along with a cigarette beforehand. Unfortunately there's no chance because Roz is herding him toward the study. Even the damn cat is getting in on the act, perched on her shoulder, watching him.

With sullen ill-grace he slouches into the room and drops into his Eames chair. It's right on the edge of the webcam's field of vision; this is a game he and Varobyov play in almost every session now, a sort of secular call-and-response he knows she puts up with because she thinks it gets her results. Sometimes it actually does, so he understands her motivation. Variant conditioning generally works better than consistency, because the reward is uncertain but always possible; there's more incentive to work for it.

"She's gonna call you on it," Roz says. He hears the amusement in her voice and sends her a nasty look, mainly because he's apprehensive and doesn't want to admit it. Her eyes widen. She leans forward, lets the Heebster jump down and then brushes a kiss over Greg's lips, soft and slow. He watches her as they kiss, sees the long lashes lie against her cheek. There won't ever be a little girl of theirs with green eyes and dark hair; the pain fills him, but he knows now it's grief he feels, however reluctantly, and it will pass. It has to.

"What is it?" Roz says. Her words touch his mouth, warm, intimate.

"Nothing." He breathes in the scent of her, clean and musky, familiar, reassuring.

"Now that's a charming sight to half-see," the Russian says from the monitor. "Grigori my boy, move over. You're involved in this session too, need I remind you."

"Buzzkill," he mutters, and Roz gives a little laugh. Her breath ghosts over his skin. Then she's sitting next to him with Hellboy in her lap. He thinks of making some crude joke about pussies, but the Russian is already speaking.

"A lot's happened since we talked last. Why don't you tell me about it?" She sips her coffee.

"Why don't we just say 'shit happens' and leave it at that," he says. Varobyov chuckles.

"How am I supposed to earn my fee if we're done in five minutes?" she says in a reasonable tone that grates on him. "Besides, there more to it than that."

"You know Greg had the vasectomy done," Roz says quietly. The Russian says nothing, just looks at him. He stares back.

"I'm not showing you my scar."

"I think there are other scars we might want to study," she says. There's no overt sympathy or sentiment in her words, more a statement of fact. Of course he can't simply accept it.

"Predictable use of metaphor," he says with a faint sneer that he knows is far more effective than laying it on thick.

"I use what works," the Russian says with a militant glint in her eye. She pushes up her glasses. "How about it, junior?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He remembers when Sarah first said it to him some years ago, in a hot, sunny yard with invisible, towering walls around it—walls of his own making, he knows that now.

Varobyov tilts her head. "All right," she says. "Roz my love, how do you feel about that idea?"

"Okay," his wife says after a brief silence. Greg knows she's afraid to reveal her emotions and thoughts about what happened; she's spoken to him, but only shown him the enormity of her grief one time, on New Year's. It isn't that she's afraid she'll be ridiculed or ignored—it's that she'll have to experience the pain all over again. He understands her wish to avoid reliving it, because he feels the same way.

"I never really thought about having kids," Roz is saying. Her cool, dark voice is carefully neutral; a fragile, battered boat edging around jagged rocks. "When I was younger, the other girls my age were planning families and it never interested me, mainly because I thought . . . I thought I'd never get married or—or find anyone." With all the simplicity of a child, she takes his hand in hers, seeking comfort. Her small fingers clasp his. "When Greg and I talked about marrying, he told me he didn't want children and I agreed with him."

"Did you do it to make him happy?" Varobyov asks quietly. Roz considers her question.

"No," she says after a few moments. "My agreement was honest. But I . . . I didn't think about what it really meant. What . . . what might happen—the consequences if I got pregnant. It was stupid. Short-sighted."

"Neither one of us made a contingency plan," Greg says. "If anyone's to blame, it's me."

"We're not assigning blame," the Russian says, predictably. He glares at her.

"I don't know why not. It's useful—"

"No," Varobyov says. "No, it's not. What it is, is a waste of time and energy. We're not here to decide who receives the larger share of guilt." The smile is gone from her voice. "That obstructs the way to the main objective."

"Which is?" he can't resist saying, though he knows the answer as well as she does.

"To examine what happened, discern the patterns of behavior in both you and Roz. To discover assumptions, presumptions, automatic responses, judgments. To learn where you both reacted instead of acting." She pauses. "Just so you know, I may need to get out the cards for this one afterward."

"Oh for fuck's _sake_," he groans. Roz's fingers give his a little squeeze.

"You've known for some time I find using the tarot often helps clarify an idea or focus my concentration," the Russian is saying.

"And _you've_ known for some time that your use of fraudulent and delusional methodology often offends me," Greg snaps. Roz looks at him then.

"Enough," she says. Her eyes are dark with an unspoken pain so profound he falls silent. To Varobyov she says, "All right."

"You don't speak for me," he mutters.

"If you really objected you'd say so," Roz says. "You're just being difficult." There is a silent _I understand_ behind the quiet rebuke that makes him sigh, but he subsides into resentful acquiescence all the same.

"If I do read a spread, I won't tell you the results unless I feel it's warranted," Varobyov says. "Let's begin." She looks at Greg. "How did you feel about Roz's pregnancy?"

The utter idiocy of the question sends a stab of fury through him. "How did I _feel?_" His voice rises in incredulity. "Well _gosh_, let's see—delighted, overjoyed, fucking thrilled to bits. I think those phrases sum it up nicely."

"It sounds to me like it scared you," the Russian says.

"It scared _me_," Roz says. She shudders—a quick little tremor, then it's gone.

"Why?" he asks, before Varobyov can do it.

"Because either way, I knew I'd lose you." It's a simple statement, so simple it takes him a moment to realize she's just admitted there are no oars in the boat, to carry his internal metaphor further. She stands empty-handed before them both, hiding nothing. It is an act of monumental trust, one he knows he cannot reciprocate.

"I'm right here," he says eventually. "I didn't go anywhere."

"But you thought about it." The grief in her quiet voice is not accusatory, though she has every right to go after him. "After the miscarriage you didn't come to see me for two days. I know you were thinking of leaving." She won't look at him. "So why didn't you?"

"I wasn't thinking of leaving." How to explain his own terror? "I just . . . just couldn't see you."

"Why?" Varobyov asks, of course.

"I don't know! It doesn't make any difference anyway!" He sees where this is going and fear rises up inside him.

"It makes a difference to me," Roz says. The pain is more obvious now, lying just under the quiet words; those sharp rocks brush the sides of the fragile boat, leaving little splintered gouges in the worn wood. "It makes _every_ difference to me."

He sighs. "I don't know what you want me to say. I couldn't stand—" He stops, but the damage is done.

"You couldn't stand to be around me," Roz finishes. She's gone pale.

"_No!_ It wasn't like that," he says quickly. Panic trumps fear—he's losing her, after everything they've gone through. "I couldn't stand—can't stand seeing you in pain. Pain I—I caused."

There's a long silence. "So you made it worse by staying away," Roz says at last. She looks at him, her green eyes dark with anger. "_Testa di cazzo_."

The emotion she displays stings him. "What about you?" His voice rises in volume. "You delayed making a decision until nature decided to make it for you. Convenient, for us anyway."

"'_Convenient__'__._" Her clasp tightens suddenly, but the mild pain actually feels good in an odd sort of way. "That's an interesting word to use. I wish I'd thought of that while you were taking me to the hospital." He hears the bitterness and cringes. "Would've given me a different perspective, anyway."

"That isn't what I . . ." He falters to a stop because that's exactly what he meant. And she got his meaning, loud and clear. The cruelty of his comment makes him wish he could just shut up, but he can't, he has to keep going—the story of his life, it's how he's wrecked every relationship he's ever cared about. "We're—we're both anthropomorphizing a clump of cells."

"So you've thought of it as a child," the Russian says. Greg doesn't answer.

"Yes," Roz says. She glances at him, then away. He doesn't want to tell either of them anything—what the hell is the point of all this dissection, this maundering over what's past now? There's a certain amount of hypocrisy for him in that thought—he readily admits to it, because to do otherwise would be pointless—but this is not a dead patient or an unsolved case, beyond the physical reasons why Roz miscarried.

"Did you?" Varobyov asks him directly, pushing the question. He thinks of the little girl at the piano, of dark lashes against pale golden skin, small, slender fingers on ivory keys.

"It doesn't make any difference," he says.

"It does to me." Roz says it so softly he can barely hear her. "It matters." She takes a deep breath. "Who—who did you see?"

The balance of their marriage hangs on the question, he knows it. He feels resentment, reluctance, a deep sadness that's moved and shifted inside him so that he can't ignore it or push it away. "A little girl," he finally says, and the sorrow settles into his heart, a weight that won't leave him for a long time. That's it; he's done, he'll never speak of it again. Roz nods. She doesn't reply. They sit together quietly in that frail boat, still a little dazed, a little bloodied, not quite sure what's happened, but the rocks are behind them now, and they face an open, brooding sea.

"I know this is difficult for both of you," Varobyov is saying. "This kind of discussion naturally discloses a great deal of pain and strong emotion. Your first tendency will be to shut down, push it away. If you can, try not to close yourselves up—talk to each other about this. I'd like to schedule another session for two days from now if possible so we can continue our work. It's important." She hesitates. "I promised I'd show you mine if you showed me yours." She sits back a bit.

"This should be interesting," Greg says, his tone sardonic. The Russian waggles her eyebrows at him and he's reminded of their first meeting, her dark eyes gleaming behind the hideous rhinestone cats-eye glasses. Now however, she's serious—no clowning or silliness.

"I'll leave that judgment to you. I'm simply delivering information." She pauses, then says "Eponine."

Greg frowns, but Roz leans forward, clearly intrigued. "You're her, or you played her onstage?"

"Maybe a little of both."

There's a brief silence. "Thanks, Hazel." Roz says it simply. The older woman nods. Greg rolls his eyes.

"So that's your tradeoff-big fucking deal. I'm not wading through the book or watching that stupid musical to get the reference," he says, though he knows who the character is and her story. _Unrequited love . . . interesting._

"Then have your wife explain it to you. That should be a novel experience." There's a slight twinkle in the Russian's eyes, but he glimpses an old pain there too, something she's lived with for a long time. "See you in a couple of days." And then she's gone. It isn't until they shut off the monitor and stand up that Greg realizes Roz has been holding his hand throughout the entire session.

Later, after lunch, he finds her curled up on the couch watching a movie. He peers at the screen, then moves her feet and sits down.

"You know, when we first met I never figured you for a science fiction fan," he says after a time. Roz looks at him.

"You thought I was some dumb redneck," she says.

"Actually I thought you were a skinny nerd with an enormous chip on your shoulder," he says. She flips him the bird and he chuckles. "You know, at this point in the proceedings most women would be dumping down a half gallon of ice cream or wiping out a cheesecake and wallowing in sentimental tears while watching some chick flick like _Beaches_. Your choice is a cup of coffee and _Blade Runner_."

She doesn't answer right away. "I can't explain it very well," she says at last. Her words are slow, deliberate. "The idea the story is based on . . . it—it calls to me, always has."

Greg eases into a more comfortable position. "So you think we could all be genetically designed humanoids with false memories implanted in us and unpredictable lifespans . . . not too far off from how things really are anyway. Guess it makes as much sense as any other theory of existence."

Roz is silent for a few moments. When she does finally speak, her voice is soft, hesitant. "Back in the day, I used to see the way other kids lived. You know, in the same house with the same mom and dad, same neighborhood, same school, all of that. They took it for granted, but I never could. And I used to wonder, which was truly real? Their lives, with everything there waiting for them when they woke up every day? Or mine? And if mine was the one that wasn't real, what did that make me?"

They watch the movie for a while in silence. Then he says, "Deep thoughts for someone so young." He won't tell her of the sadness he feels for the young girl she was, neglected and confused.

"Yeah, well." She lays her cheek to the cushion. "I was a weird kid." To his surprise she turns her head a bit and looks at him. It's a direct, steady gaze. unflinching. "Sometimes things are hard with you and me, really hard. But I still like the reality we make together, because even the hard times are better than not being real." She draws in a quiet breath, lets it out. "I want to you to talk to Sarah about this. Please. Whenever you want to is fine. But please do it."

He waits until her eyes drift shut. When he's sure she's asleep he gets up and slips into the study, closes the door quietly behind him.

_January 21st_

_6 a.m._

Roz topped off her coffee and slapped the top on the travel mug, pulled her knitted cap down on her head, gave Hellboy a final scritch and shambled to the door. It was cold, snowy and dark outside; her enthusiasm for a Monday morning full of work was non-existent. She'd hated to leave her comfortable bed and the warmth of her husband's inert form, but duty called.

With a sigh she made her way to the garage over the new drifts accumulated overnight, pried the door open and went in. It took some doing to convince the truck to come to life, but eventually it complied. Roz waited a minute or two, then turned on the heater, backed the truck from the shed, got out to close the door. On her return she put her hand on the passenger seat to grab the day's schedule of appointments. Instead she felt her iPod.

"_Dammit_," she said under her breath, and turned on the overhead light. A Post-it note was stuck over the screen. In Greg's bold, nearly illegible handwriting it said

**CRANK ME BAYBEE! **

**GOTO PLAYLIST: CRAPOLA****-****1**

Roz stared at it, then began to smile. She set her travel mug in the holder and put the iPod in the docking station she'd jerry-rigged a few months ago, removed the note and selected the playlist. A moment later music flooded the cab—jangling echoplex guitars and a thumping beat.

_life's ambition occupies my time _

_priorities confuse the mind _

_happiness one step behind _

_this inner peace I've yet to find_

Delight swelled inside her. She knew Greg disliked her taste in music, he often teased her about her propensity for pop of the eighties and nineties, but it was also plain he'd spent time in the last twelve hours or so, making this playlist for her.

_rivers flow into the sea _

_yet even the sea is not so full of me _

_if I'm not blind why can't I see _

_that a circle can't fit _

_where a square should be_

Thoroughly enchanted, she turned up the volume, gunned the motor and took off down the drive, fishtailing the whole way as she sang along, uncaring that she sounded like absolute shit.

_there's a hole in my heart _

_that can only be filled by you _

_and this hole in my heart _

_can't be filled with the things I do _

She knew it for the apology and explanation it was, and accepted it. She'd meant what she'd told him the day before—the reality they made together was better than any other she'd ever known. And here was the proof. But she hadn't needed it—or she thought she hadn't until now. Now she was glad he'd offered it.

[H]

He's jolted out of sleep at some hellish hour by the sound of Roz's truck careening down the slalom course that is their driveway, all four cylinders struggling valiantly to cope with the frozen ruts and piles of half-melted snow. Faint music reaches his ears, along with his wife singing along at the top of her most unmusical voice. He listens, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before sleep claims him once more.

_this heart of stone is where I hide_

_these feet of clay kept warm inside_

_day by day less satisfied_

_not fade away before I die_

_rivers flow into the sea_

_yet even the sea is not so full of me_

_if I'm not blind why can't I see_

_that a circle can't fit_

_where a square should be_

_there's a hole in my heart _

_that can only be filled by you _

_should have known from the start_

_I'd fall short with the things I do_

_hole hearted . . . _

'_Rachel's Song'_, Blade Runner _soundtrack_

'_Hole Hearted', __Extreme_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews are like dobro and twelve-string guitars-you can never have too many! :)_**


	30. epilogue

**_(This is the last chapter for this story, but there's another story in the works, never fear. Next Monday I hope to post the opening chapter to the next story in the Treatment series, called Opening Day._**

**_Many thanks and humble gratitude to my friend and fellow writer, anon004, for co-writing this chapter with me. She sent me the core of it, and we worked on it together. We hope you enjoy it. If you're not reading her House-Wilson post-finale story, _Time After Time_, check it out-it's a great read. _**

**_One note on this chapter: both House and Sarah's points of view are told in present tense. Usually only House's pov is done that way (the muse insisted on it from the very beginning), but both anon and I found it confusing to have Sarah's pov in past tense when the rest of the story in present. So all present tense it is, just for this chapter. -B)_**

_January 26th_

_12 p.m._

Greg left the house early that morning—well, early for him anyway-even though it's a Saturday. He'd given Roz some excuse about things needing to be cleaned up at the clinic, but he's pretty sure she saw through that. After puttering around for a couple of hours and annoying the hell out of McMurphy, he's back, dreading what is about to come.

He pulls into the Goldmans driveway rather than his own out of sheer laziness, since he can't use his leg as an excuse anymore. So what? It's bad enough he has to do this; he doesn't have to get his feet and the bottom of his pants soaked trudging through the snow from their place on top of it. Besides, he might feel the need to get the hell out of Dodge for a while after the session. Anyway, no point in struggling over frozen drifts all the way back home when he can have Barbarella ready to go right outside the door.

As he parks the car in front he notices the driveway is almost clear of snow. _So apparently there are some advantages to having a yard ape_. He feels a pang in his chest at the thought, which he wills to go away. It's getting harder to push the sadness aside as time passes, so however reluctant the knowledge, he needs this session. He also knows it will have all the seductive charm of a root canal on an infected tooth, performed _sans_ Novocaine.

The ever-present cold seeping into the car reminds him he's stalling. Greg forces himself to get out and walk up the driveway. Normally he'd go around to the back door and come in through the mudroom like family, but today's different. He doesn't want to examine that superstition too closely—and that's what it is, whether he wants to admit it or not.

Even though he has a key to both front and back doors, he rings the bell and waits. The Goldmans have become a little more security conscious since last year's hijinks. He buries the fear that always comes when he remembers he almost lost Sarah, and rings the bell again, leaning on it this time.

After a few moments Sarah unlocks the door and lets him in. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here already," she says, smiling. "Gettin' all formal with me today, I see," and she gives him a quick hug. As she heads back to the kitchen, he toes off his sneakers and puts his coat on the rack, then stands motionless, collecting his thoughts and trying not to freak out. He knows it's ridiculous. What can Sarah possibly do to him? _Just make you wrench your own guts out by forcing you to face this, _he thinks_, _and almost turns around in a panic to escape. By sheer force of will he makes himself stop and consider his actions. He'd lived for years in serious pain with his leg; many times, in sheer agony._You're no wimp, _he thinks in useless defiance. Then why is he so damn terrified? No answer is forthcoming, however.

With a mental sigh he pushes himself through the house until he reaches the kitchen. Sarah is there, baking bread to last for the next few days. "I just took the last loaf out of the oven," she tells him. "Want some?"

House reaches for one of the cooler loaves on the wire rack and begins slicing it with the knife she hands him. He grabs a seat at the counter and proceeds to slather the bread with the softened butter she usually keeps on hand. There's a sort of primal satisfaction in plastering a big chunk of saturated fat on a thick slab of fresh bread. The butter's already melting by the time he's ready to taste-test.

"Aren't you past old enough to get your cholesterol checked?" Sarah teases.

"Did, and it's fine," he informs her as he takes a huge bite and chews noisily. "Besides, there is no link between eating cholesterol and blood cholesterol rising."

She snorts in amusement. "I'm sure you'll name the coronary after me."

House mock-glares at her as he finishes that piece and grabs the knife to cut another slice. "Nice. Where's the rug rat and your hubby?"

"The Orange men have a home game this afternoon and Gene took Jason. They're going out to dinner afterwards and then coming home." Sarah puts the mixing bowl back in its accustomed place on the open shelf next to the oven, as Greg savors the mellow, nutty flavor of the fresh bread.

"Sounds like a late night."

"My guesstimate is they'll be back by eight or so. Not too bad."

He's not fooled by her casual tone. "But late enough for us to have a looong session."

Sarah takes the bandana off her head. Rusty curls escape in a bright halo. She's growing her hair out again, it's almost down to her shoulders now. "Whatever you're up for, son."

He rolls his eyes. "What I'm up for is a lengthy afternoon encounter with my wife."

"Hmm. I was wonderin', is it true overuse of Viagra makes everything look blue?" Sarah's tone is pure innocence. Greg spares her a withering glance.

"Hilarious. Let's just get this over with, if you don't mind."

The teasing look leaves Sarah's eyes. She unties her apron and goes to the mudroom door, tosses the stained garment on the washer. "Are you okay in the living room?"

"So that's where you're keeping the rack and the hot pokers these days," he says over his shoulder as he leads the way and claims what is universally considered "his" chair—by universally he means himself, of course. Sarah follows, with a fresh mug of tea in her hand. She places it on the coaster on the end table, then goes to the fireplace, drops another log on the fire, stabs at it a couple of times with the poker to get it in the right spot. With care she replaces the screen, settles into a chair opposite his and picks up her mug—a familiar routine, something he knows she's doing to give him a chance to relax. A few moments later a wave of warmth fills the room, sweet with the scent of seasoned applewood; no doubt it's a pruning from Annie's orchard, traded in exchange for some of Sarah's strawberry preserves. He breathes in the smell and knows in some indefinable way that this is still his first real home, a haven of safety and trust. No one in this place will hurt him or send him away, especially the woman sitting across from him.

"So, why are you here, wasting a perfectly good Saturday?" Sarah asks. Greg glances at the dining room table, where graph-paper garden plans and lists are spread out on much of the surface.

"Sorry I interrupted your weeping over a seed catalog, Farmer Brown."

She gives him a considering, thoughtful stare that makes him nervous. "That was a one-time thing and it was about James, as well you know. You also know he's doing better, so stop deflecting. Why did you want to see me?"

He shrugs. "My wife insisted."

"From my observations, I'd say she's a very perceptive woman."

"Huh," he scoffs. "That's only because she agrees with you."

Sarah chuckles. "Well, yeah. So, what's eating you?"

"Oh, you and your fancy-dancy psychological terms!" He pauses for several beats. "I don't know . . ."

"I think you do." Her reply is soft, but there's nothing sentimental or pitying in it—he's thankful for that. Empathy right now would send him fleeing into the hinterlands, and Sarah understands him quite well in that regard. "You know the five stages of grief, right?" Greg rolls his eyes but says nothing. "Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance-"

"Yeah yeah yeah, and I'm already into acceptance. Do I get a gold star, Teach?" He puts plenty of sarcasm in the question.

Sarah looks down at her hands. "We both know you're nowhere near acceptance, son. You're deep in denial and depression, with an extra-large side of anger just to keep us all on our toes."

He stares down his nose at her. "Au contraire, ye who got her degree out of a box of Cracker Jack. I'm at acceptance, because I don't need to grieve."

Now she looks up. Those luminous sea-green eyes are intent, questioning. "Why not?"

Greg feels a momentary surge of frustration. Is he the only one who doesn't get this? "I'm supposed to be grief-stricken about something I didn't want. Don't be stupid."

She tilts her head just a bit—a scientist studying a particularly interesting species of insect. "Why didn't you want it?"

He knows her little ways by now, enough to make it tough for her to pitch a change-up on him. Still, he was expecting a lecture on why he should want it, not a direct question like this one. And he doesn't know how to answer it. All he knows is that it hurts to acknowledge it. Deep within he feels the weight of sadness, like a stone in his heart. He pushes the awareness away and gives her the line he's been using as an answer from the start of this mess. "We agreed to no children when we got married—"

Sarah cuts him off-a rare instance of irritation on display. "You know, you said that I don't know how many times when Roz was pregnant, and it still doesn't explain a damn thing." She softens a bit. "Why did you make the agreement?"

Greg can't help but feel a little gratitude that she hasn't accused him of pushing his wife into the promise. When Roz hesitated to terminate the pregnancy, he'd spent a number of sleepless nights wondering if he had somehow coerced her into agreeing with him. Normally he wouldn't give that technique a second thought, but in this case . . . Roz being apologetic about waiting until she miscarried and Sarah's questioning tells him now his fear was unwarranted, though he could be accused of manipulation; still, he truly hadn't meant or wanted to maneuver Roz into agreeing with him. His stomach unclenches slightly. But Sarah is still waiting for an answer. He does his best to reply in the flippant tone she'll expect. "Because with my background, I never had a snowball's chance in hell of being a good parent."

Sarah's curls spark and glitter in the firelight as she thinks about his reply. After a few moments she says "Do you think Gene and I are bad parents?"

He could say at least a dozen snarky things here, but he decides to be honest. "Not so far."

"And we certainly didn't have idyllic childhoods, to put it mildly."

Well, she has him there. But of course he's not going to give up so easily. "At least you weren't someone's bastard."

"Yeah, and bein' their natural-born child made my childhood so much happier than yours," Sarah responds with considerable sarcasm, which immediately puts him on the defensive. He knows she's being deliberately provocative, but she's touched a raw nerve. He gives in to the urge to lash out at her.

"_Fuck_ you. You don't know everything that went on with me."

She doesn't flinch from his harshness. "No, but I do know your father didn't spend his days drunk outta his mind. He didn't near-starve his wife and kids because he'd pissed all his money away on gettin' stoned. John made a decent living, he made sure you had clothes to wear and a roof over your head that wasn't leakin' every time it rained. He didn't sexually abuse you or not give a shit that someone else was."

He knows Sarah's childhood was horrific. Even so, he can't let his own pain be dismissed, though he understands it's a trap she's set deliberately to draw him out; the bait is just too tempting to pass up. So he snarls "No, he just took it out on me in other ways." He braces himself to hear how he was weak, that it wasn't that bad, and he should have been able to take it. Therefore he's surprised by Sarah's response.

"Agreed. Why do you think he did those things to you?"

"How the hell would I know?" he snaps. "Maybe he thought he was exposing me to 'Marine discipline' or some other equally idiotic shit."

"Why would he want to do that?"

"May I repeat: how the hell should I know?"

"Let's think about this for a second." Sarah pauses—not for effect; she's contemplating the situation. He sees it in the cast of her face, her expression. He relaxes just a fraction; she's taking his experiences seriously. Not many people have; in fact, most people haven't, mainly because they never asked about his childhood. He recalls Stacy flinching away from him when he'd mentioned John's silence for a summer . . . he sets the memory aside as Sarah speaks.

"Did John do alcohol?"

Greg is surprised by the question. He has to think about it. "Not that I remember. I never saw him take a single drink."

Sarah settles into the chair, sips her tea, holds the cup with both hands—probably to warm them. She gets cold easily in this old house; in point of fact she's wearing two pairs of socks and her sheepskin slippers, along with her usual flannel-lined jeans and long-sleeved thermal shirt under her favorite old Aran sweater. "Doesn't that strike you as odd? I mean, most Marines seem to be as macho about drinking as they are about anything else."

"I guess . . ." he says with reluctance.

"How about drugs? A lot of those guys came back from Korea and Vietnam with addiction problems."

"Nope. In fact, the only fight I ever heard my parents have was about Mom using pills, not him."

Sarah nods. "Tell me what happened."

The memory comes back to him, bright as a new penny. Most of his childhood remembrances are sharp and clear, something he despises—it's why he keeps them locked away in a tiny little corner of his mind, where he doesn't have to look at them. "I went to play at a neighbor's house for the afternoon . . . 'play' being the operative euphemism for Mom dumping me off on the people next door when she was too stoned to cope. I must've been about ten years old or so. I was supposed to be home at suppertime, but the kid's mother was pregnant and she got sick." His diagnostician's mindset kicks in for a moment. "From the symptoms she displayed, it was most likely pre-eclampsia. Huh . . . just thought of that. Interesting."

"Go on," Sarah says softly when he falls silent. With an effort he gathers his thoughts.

"So . . . the father came home and took everyone to the hospital, which meant I had to go home early. I came in the front door and I heard them arguing in the kitchen. I don't remember specifics, other than John saying she had to stop using those goddamn pills or he would leave her. For a minute I was actually hopeful, until he said he'd take me with him because he wouldn't stick a kid with a drug addict. At that point, I was silently begging Mom to say she'd stop taking the sedatives. She was crying and she agreed. I didn't want them to know I'd been listening . . ."

"You knew if John found out you'd heard them, he'd make life hell for you," Sarah says. There is a quiet understanding in her voice that eases his fear and anger, allowing both emotions to fade into the usual background noise that always goes on in his head. He nods.

"So I went outside and sat in the front yard. I came in a half hour later and Mom was getting dinner and John was watching TV." Abruptly he realizes he's fallen neatly into her trap and given her far too much information. She'll have to work for anything she gets from him now.

Sarah pauses. She knows Greg is perfectly capable of drawing his own conclusions and getting to the right place, but he can also go in a completely opposite direction out of sheer bloody-mindedness. She decides to coach him a little. "So, he didn't drink, he didn't use drugs, he wouldn't tolerate your Mom using drugs, to the point that he would take a kid, possibly not even his own, who for certain he didn't like very much, away from her to protect him. Why do you think he felt so strongly about this?"

"Never thought about it." Greg's tone is flat, uncompromising. It has 'DON'T GO THERE' written all over it, a big bristly display of hostility. Sarah ignores the warning, but tries a slightly different route.

"What do you know about his family?"

"His father died before I was born, we moved a lot and didn't see Oma very often. He didn't contact her much that I can remember, and he never invited her to stay with us or even visit." He hesitates. "I don't know . . . Oma was—was good to me. She—liked me."

Sarah knows a stab of compassion for the confused and misunderstood child Greg had been, and still is to a large extent, but doesn't let the emotion distract her. "Did you get the feeling he was ashamed of her or his father when he was alive?"

"Not sure . . ." Greg ponders the question for a moment. "It's possible. Don't see what that has to do with anything."

"You know enough about psychology to understand that children of parents who have serious substance abuse problems grow up in chaotic households, to say the least. And you know that if they don't get help dealing with that, they tend to do one of two things. Either they become just like their parents and abuse booze or drugs themselves, or they become controlling in an attempt to overcome the chaos they endured throughout their childhood."

"You being a poster child for both categories at varying times, of course." Sarah acknowledges his dig with a nod; it's the truth, so she lets him score the point. Greg tips his head back for a moment, considering her words. Then he looks straight at her, his gaze fierce. "You're saying you think that's what happened to him."

"It's certainly possible. It would explain why he was so drawn to the military and to the Marines in particular–for the structure. It would also explain why he was such a fanatic about order, punctuality, and discipline. And why he didn't want to leave you with your mother while she was using pills, which he probably would have considered an abusive environment, ironically enough."

"Seriously?"

"Think about it. It fits." It isn't exactly a differential diagnosis, but Sarah thinks she's successfully appealed to his logical side. She waits to see what his response will be.

There's a brief silence. After everything John did to Greg, there is a part of him that can only see the man as a cold, mean, miserable son of a bitch. But there is also the part of him that can be detached, and he uses that ability to think about what Sarah has postulated. It's certainly possible. In fact, it makes the most sense out of John's behavior of anything he or anyone else has hypothesized over the years.

Of course, that doesn't mean he can simply accept it. "So what? Even if that was the bastard's motivation, it doesn't have anything to do with what we're talking about."

"We were talking about your being the same kind of parent as John."

Just that fast, the clenching in his gut is back. "So, I'm supposed to learn something from the example of my un-daddy, who, possibly having been raised in a crappy, chaotic environment, turned my life into a living hell by creating a crappy, obsessively orderly environment for me?" He shakes his head. "Nope. Go rattle your beads and dump your _gris-gris_ on someone else, witch doctor. It ain't gonna work on me."

Sarah doesn't rise to the bait. "I would like you to consider my point: people can use different methods than their parents employed."

"But even with one hypothetical household using 'different methods'," he puts plenty of scorn in the words, "both families were still completely dysfunctional. By inference you're suggesting that I should change again, go back to being what we think his father was–abusive and neglectful–because I'm an addict."

He should have known she wouldn't fall for his argument; she's not a clueless fellow on his team who hasn't mastered the art of critical thinking. "I did say there were basically two reactions–for people who didn't get help. You got help and you're in recovery."

Greg snorts. "Yeah, right now." He just throws that out there to rattle her, but instead of the smartass response he's expecting, her reply is serious.

"You know very well that all we're ever sure about is today." There's a dark edge of resignation in her words that reminds him she understands that concept all too clearly. Still, he can't let her comment go untouched.

"And this is good for a kid, how exactly?" He puts a considerable amount of sarcasm in that rhetorical question.

"Every parent is flawed. You are more self-aware than anyone I've ever known. For the most part, you know exactly what your flaws are and, since you are getting help, how to deal with them. That puts you miles ahead of almost any parent out there."

"So you're saying I'd know how not to hurt a kid because I'd know when I was screwing up and to stop it." He doesn't buy that for a second, but he'll let her believe it. And yet he can't resist going a step further, just to see what she'll say-to test her. "What about . . . " He hesitates, then decides to take the plunge. Fuck it. An experiment is only as valid as the integrity of its components. "I don't have the capacity to care about a child. Not the way . . . not like a parent should."

Sarah doesn't answer right away. When she does, she surprises him again. "We've had this discussion before, son. All your life, you've had people tell you that you aren't worthy of being loved, that you can't love in return. Unfortunately, your experiences can't be changed. What can be changed is whether you accept that what they told you is true or not. And I think you know by now that it isn't." The unaccountable affection . . . no, now he knows it for what it is—the love she feels for him shines through her simple words, as warming and bright as the fire burning behind the screen a few feet away. He turns his face from hers for a few moments, unable to bear the look on her face. He's not worthy of it, and he knows it even if she doesn't.

"Well, that helps my self-loathing," he tries for sarcasm but it comes out pained instead, which he hates. "But that doesn't tell me how to give two shits about some ankle biter my wife and I made by smacking an egg and a few sperm together."

"It's the place you start. And then you add your empathy and your being a good teacher, and you're pretty much there."

"Empathy," he scoffs, but falls silent for a few moments. "That's . . . that's all there is to being a good parent, then?"

Sarah smiles a little. "It's the most important thing. The bein' thrilled that they hit a home run in Little League or learned how to play 'Heart and Soul,' telling everyone until they can't stand to listen about the latest funny thing they said, and turnin' into a big pile of mush because they want to hug and kiss you, that comes along in time."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Get real. Can you honestly see me doing _any_ of that?"

"Not so as anyone would notice, but, yes."

"But none of that is my loving someone," he has to point out. "How do you know I can do that?"

Sarah's sea-green eyes gleam with mild triumph; she thinks she has him by the short hairs, so to speak. "You love Roz."

"Meh. She gives me sex."

"And that's all there is to your relationship?"

"It's the biggest part of it." Greg offers a leer. "Biggest part—see what I did there?"

Sarah chuckles. "Son, as they used to say back home, 'yer so full of horseshit it's comin' out yer ears.'"

"Such a bucolic image." He gives her a hard stare. "Redneck. You'd know all about being full of horseshit."

Sarah ignores his sarcasm. "If it was just about sex you'd have never married her, nor would you be trying to stay married to her. Nothing wrong with admitting that you love someone."

He can't let that one go. "There always has been, for me."

"But there isn't now." She sits back a bit. "Things have changed."

He lets that pass without comment. "So you really think I could find it in my cold cinder of a heart to care about a kid."

"Absolutely." As usual, Sarah exhibits an unshakeable faith in him that he's not sure he's worthy of. It warms him even as a voice of denial lingers at the back of his mind. That voice has gotten less insistent since he began working with Sarah, but it's still there. He can't refute her love and respect for him logically, but there is something about this situation that requires he at least be capable of looking at the truth, even if his shrink can't or won't.

"If I did find out I had that capacity, which I doubt, this wasn't a kid. So I won't get all maudlin and stupid over something that didn't exist."

Sarah is well aware that Greg has changed the subject. She decides to let him think about what she's said, and allows the session move on. She is familiar with Greg's views on this topic. Biologically speaking, a baby is not a baby until it's born, and her boy is a scientist to his core. Facts are what matter to him, or so he's convinced himself. Feelings just cloud the 'real' issue. She knows by now it's a blend of his medical training, John's conditioning against emotions of all kinds, and defensiveness to protect himself from the hurt and betrayal he's suffered for a good chunk of his life, that makes him dismiss his or anyone else's emotions. But he's fully capable of feelings of all kinds, both fierce and tender, though he keeps them deeply buried. She knows the inevitable wave of sorrow for the man her son might have been, but sets it aside.

"Human females are non-productive for months during pregnancy and have a high risk of death from childbirth. The offspring produced are also tremendously fragile in comparison to other species and have one of the longest childhoods of any species."

Greg inclines his head in mock reverence. "Thank you, Margaret Mead."

"This isn't anthropology, it's biology, and you know it. Why would human adults endure all that, including the tremendous strain on resources of a child that grows until well into its teens?"

He looks away. "It's the price we pay for having large brains, which makes those tendencies nothing but survival strategies."

Sarah won't let him dismiss the point. "And those large brains also push our impulses toward hedonism, not the altruism associated with raising a child."

Greg exhales through his nose. "What's the end result of this rambling discourse?" he says after a moment.

"Just that there needs to be something beyond pure survival instinct and survival of genes to make us go through all that. It's to our evolutionary advantage to feel something for a child, or even a fetus–a potential child."

"And you have your own experience with that, don't you, Mommy Dearest?"

Even after everything she's done to deal with the pain of her loss, it still stings like a hard slap in the face when she's confronted in this way; despite the years since her last episode of abuse, she remembers that feeling all too well. She gets that Greg's done it on purpose, but feels no animosity toward him for it as her analyst-self pushes away the hurt, aware they're close to some serious pain he's trying to hide from her, and himself. She returns to the topic at hand.

"So, the loss you're feeling is an evolutionary response."

"Well, doesn't that just appeal to the rational scientist in me. Thanks for giving me cover for my emotions, _Doctor_." The sarcasm drips off him like water would if he'd been caught in a downpour without a raincoat. "It might have worked better if you weren't so blatantly obvious, though. Your technique is rusty. You sure you're ready to open a practice, even here in East Podunk?"

_Hmm . . ._ Sarah examines his statement with as much rational objectivity as she can muster, because it's vitally important for her patient that she do so. She can give in to the uncertainty and worry he's raised later on, when she's alone. _Poking one of my professed inadequacies with a sharp stick. He hasn't lashed out like this in a long time. That means he's hurting even more than I thought._They're getting close to the hidden wound he carries. She responds with honesty, the best method of disarming the formidable defenses of which he's capable. "Any doctor worth his or her salt questions themselves now and then, yes." She sits back and waits for his reply, outwardly calm as she ignores the pain he's caused. That, too, is part of parenting.

By now, he shouldn't be surprised by her forthrightness or her ability to be self-aware, including her own weaknesses. But he's known so few people in his life like this, he can still be taken aback when he encounters it. So he watches her instead, waiting to see if she's going to lie to him or contradict herself, or give up—anything he can work with to get himself out of this situation, and go home. Even as he thinks it, he knows it won't happen; she's way too good at her job, despite his jeers to the contrary.

"We're getting off the subject here," Sarah says at last. "As I was saying, you've at least been genetically programmed to feel something over the loss of even a potential child."

Greg remembers imagining a little girl with dark hair and green eyes, sitting at his piano. A jolt of pain suddenly surges inside him, so intense he feels his eyes water. "This is stupid," is all he can say. It comes out as a resentful mutter; he might as well be eight years old.

"No, it's not," Sarah says. "Don't be angry with yourself for feeling something. I know this doesn't fit in with your logical view of yourself, with the empirical evidence you've collected over the years, and that frustrates and angers you. But I'll venture to say this: your evidence-gathering was influenced from the start by outside forces. You do have emotions, quite valid ones as a matter of fact. Denying them never does you any good, as you well know. Hey, even Mister Spock had feelings."

He almost groans out loud at this last caveat. "_Yeesh_. If I give you a few sniffles and clear my throat, can I go home?"

"Demonstrating to me that you have the beginnings of a cold won't do much to convince me you're facing your pain." She watches him with such compassion. "Try something else, like the truth."

They sit there for a while in silence, while the fire pops and snaps and the snow falls in an unending dance of flakes past the windows. He struggles with what he knows he has to say; he'd give anything to leave it unsaid.

"I . . . I just-I don't-" He hates himself for sounding so weak, like a whiny, spoiled child, but he can't help it. He's always avoided this kind of thing, and, while Sarah is right that it won't do him any good to do that now, he still can't get away from the part of himself that wishes it would all just disappear.

"I know," Sarah says softly. "But sometimes we have to acknowledge pain in order to heal. You're a doctor, you know that. Lance the boil, and all those other ancient cliches."

"'First do no harm'," he throws at her. "Anyway, you know doctors make the crappiest patients."

"But they can't avoid becoming patients sometimes, can they? Why would it be so terrible to allow yourself to feel something over this? Why do you consider it harmful?"

"Because it's pain, dammit!" He lashes out at her because she's made herself a target just by prodding him about this. "_I don't want to feel pain!_" Again, he loathes that pathetic little boy's voice coming out of him.

"I know that you've had several lifetimes' worth already, son." Sarah says it with a quiet sorrow that both comforts and annoys the hell out of him. "But this isn't going anywhere unless you address it."

"Fucking pointless," he snarls. "I don't need to feel something over-over _nothing_."

He should have known she wouldn't let that one go. "It wasn't 'nothing', Greg. It was the combination of some amazing genes, of a potential person you have to admit you were at least curious about."

"Curiosity, okay," he reluctantly concedes. "But no sadness."

"Why not?"

He snorts at her disingenuousness. "You can't be sad over lost potential."

"Oh, bullshit." There it is, that familiar twang; bool-shih-yit. Her reply surprises as much as it comforts him; of course she won't get sentimental, she knows that's the surest way to alienate him. "So all those years you lost with your leg are fine with you?" She sounds politely incredulous. Well, she has him there. He responds with a feeble attempt at sarcasm.

"Oh, aren't you just so clever."

She sighs softly. "I'm just saying, and you know this from your own experience, that people feel badly about lost potential all the time."

"Uh uh. This is not that. It's not whether I should have become a blues musician instead of a diagnostician."

She shakes her head. "No, that's living with a choice. Except this wasn't a choice you made, was it?"

And there it is, the barbed lance-point buried deep in his side that he's been doing his best to ignore. As much as he's tried to convince himself that things were better because with the miscarriage Roz wouldn't have to make a decision and consequently feel guilty about it, he can't get over the feeling that something was taken from him . . . from them. The outcome would have been the same, he knows, but he wanted at least Roz to be able to choose. He sits there helpless, the pain of the lance-point undeniable now, a wound that poisons him with every moment he denies its existence.

"It was like your leg, wasn't it?" Sarah asks softly. It's obvious she's aware she's treading on dangerous ground now.

"Yes," he says with great reluctance, because he can't say anything else. "It's—it's not like I can wimp out and think there'll be a better drug for the pain, or relief from an amputation, or a new treatment." He looks down at his leg and the new muscle he's grown, finally admitting to her and to himself that he had allowed himself to hope all those years. "Even if I hadn't had Chase do the surgery . . . and if we changed our minds and decided we wanted to have a kid . . . this particular combination . . . this potential . . . this . . ." He has to say it, he has no choice. "This _child_ . . ."

And just that fast, he feels his breathing accelerating and the moisture is accumulating on his lashes. He blinks them away, mostly. After a few moments he's vaguely aware that Sarah has left the room, but he can't seem to concentrate on anything except the grief inside him . . . and yet it's not the excruciating pain he'd feared it would be. It hurts terribly, yes; the kind of hurt he knows won't ever leave him completely, there will always be a weight in his heart when he thinks of his child—his and Roz's baby, their unique creation-but somehow it feels right that the weight will be there. It should be there.

When he comes out of his thoughts, it's to find Sarah standing by his side. In her hands is a notebook. It looks familiar . . . he places it within seconds of seeing it.

"Gonna record all this angst in your Big Book of Little Greggy's Secrets," he says at last. He struggles with a sense of betrayal.

"No," she says quietly. "I promised you a long time ago that when the day came, I would give you the notes of our sessions together, all the way back to the beginning, so you can do whatever you like with them." She smiles just a little. "Today is that day."

With that she places the notebook in his hands. Greg stares down at it.

"You're serious," he says. She nods.

"Yup. All yours."

He wipes his eyes, a quick swipe to clear away the tears he hates so much, and opens to a random page. The entry is written in hieroglyphs—middle Egyptian, he remembers her saying-in Sarah's small, neat hand; columns of information, precise and elegant and for all that, nearly as unreadable as a scribble, at least to his eyes. He can pick out a word here and there, but that's all.

"You could make a fortune off this." It's what he'd said when she'd first told him about her notes.

"So I could. Not interested," Sarah says. "I love you too much to destroy your trust and our friendship for a few bucks. I'd rather earn it the honest way and poke around in neurotic people's heads an hour at a time."

That gets a slight chuckle out of him. He runs his fingers over the page. So much careful work, and she's handed it over as if it's of no consequence . . . but he knows far better than that. The absolute faith this gesture demonstrates threatens to open a new well of emotion inside him. To ease the intensity he stands up, goes to the fireplace. Sarah follows him. He stops, reaches out to move the screen, stares into the bright flames. When her hand comes to rest on his arm he doesn't flinch; her touch is welcome and has been for some time now, a reminder of what he's gained amid loss. He draws in a breath. With a single quick gesture he tosses the notebook into the fire. Together he and Sarah watch it burn.

"I suggest we continue our sessions," she says after a while. "You might find you want to do some exploring now and then."

Greg stares at the curling pages, lost forever now, and feels some of those inscribed words leave him for good too. Not all, not by a long shot . . . but some. "Yeah. I'd . . . I can deal with that." He turns his gaze to her, searches her face. He sees again the faint scar through her brow, the laugh lines at the corner of her eyes, the quiet honesty and love in her bright gaze. After a bit of hesitation he bends down and kisses her cheek. When he draws back there are tears on her lashes.

"Well done," she says softly. "So proud of you, son."

He holds her gaze. "I have to go . . . I have to tell her . . ."

"I know. I'm here whenever you need me." She smiles a little. "Give your wife a hug and a kiss from me."

He bolts from the house in his eagerness to get home, starting up the car and almost slamming it into gear, uncaring that Jay will give him hell for it when it's time for a tune-up. He backs out and pulls into their driveway next door. His chest is squeezing as he puts Barbarella in the garage; he runs through the path Roz cleared with the snow blower from the garage to the back door, catching himself as he slides now and then.

The kitchen is warm and holds delicious smells of the roast braising in the oven, but it's deserted. He finds Roz in the living room, curled up on the couch and watching TV. She takes one look at him and turns it off with the remote. He dumps his coat and gloves on the nearest chair and stares at her, unable to move forward.

"I . . . I wanted to tell you—" His voice is rough, harsh, too loud. He stops, clears his throat. "I didn't want the kid . . . except—" In his mind he sees the little girl again, his little girl—_ours_, he thinks, _ours_. "What you said to me, I felt it too. I wanted the part . . . the part that was you . . ." The words die in his throat; he can't get the rest of them out. He stands there, unable to move. The tears he'd held back at Sarah's house fall so fast and thick it's like he's trying to see the road while driving in a downpour. And then he feels slender, work-worn hands cupping his face, his tears being gently wiped away with her thumbs. His lover's mouth finds his, her soft lips sweet as wine, but his face is too wet to realize she's crying as well, until she draws in a shuddering breath and brings him close, shaking.

Some time later they lie in bed after making love, holding each other. The pain is still there and probably always will be, but they share it now, and that makes it easier for both of them—he understands that finally. For the moment however, it's enough that to lie in each other's arms and take comfort in closeness.

After a while they get up to take dinner out of the oven and eat at the table in their warm, fragrant kitchen, while outside the wind picks up the fresh snow in swirls. As he sits there, for a moment he thinks of the quiet woman across the lane, undoubtedly settled in her study with a cup of tea and the latest psychology journals, making notes as she does her best to become a better healer than the superlative one she already is. He sends her an unspoken and thoroughly inadequate word of heart-felt thanks, and takes a sip of _pinot noir_ in her honor.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like cups of tea-always refreshing! :)**_


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